Something of a dog

Friday, March 4th., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

Alphonse Courlander

Going along the Strand on Wednesday afternoon I met Alphonse Courlander. Just the same. Wanting to know what kind of book the 'book of the future' would be so that he might write in that style. Very disappointed because, at the age of 28, he had not made a name. "The worst of me is that I am so imitative" he said. "Every good writer I read strongly influences me." Pathetic, wistful figure. He never will make a name.
 
Tea at Rumpelmayers. Marie Belloc Lowndes at lunch. We talked mainly about Wells's scandals and Barrie's scandals. I always feel a little awkward with her because years ago, on a whim, I told her I kept a notebook of my 'amorous' liaisons. In fact I showed her a small pocket book I happened to have with me. So she got the impression, erroneously, that I am something of a 'dog'. The good thing about it is that we talk quite frankly about sexual matters when we meet. I am sure she thinks I am a little in Wells's way, but more discreet. I wonder what she tells Marguerite? Met a young novelist named Walpole. Stayed there fighting with the band until 6.15.

Dined with Webster, Dolly Smith, and poet Wayle at Treviglios. Both Dolly and I had forgotten our tickets, so we had to drive to Golden Cross Hotel, and to Bayswater to get them. Reached Albert Hall and costume ball of the Chelsea Arts Club at 11.15. Left at 4.15. Got into bed at 5 and was up at 8.30. No China tea at Golden Cross Hotel.