Yesterday being wet I went over to Monte Carlo, and lost money, and was depressed by that and the weather, and more particularly by my lack of sense in playing with insufficient capital. That sentence is a lie. I went over to Monte Carlo in spite of the weather because I wanted to gamble and I thought I would win. Idiot. If there were a way of beating the system then somebody would have thought of it by now. Supremely arrogant of me to think that I have some special insight. No more!Early this morning, still in a fairly savage mood, I composed a limerick on that infernal and un-vanquishable bore Mrs. Miller:
There was an old woman named Miller
Whose acquaintances wanted to kill her,
When they put her in ice,
She sniggered, "How nice!"
For nothing could possibly chill her.
I sent it off to Eden Phillpotts by special messenger, and instantly felt better.
Phillpotts and I should have finished our play in the next few days and I must then go to England to pay a duty call on my mother who is still quite ill. Then back to Paris. I am trying to persuade Wells to visit me there. I have read the first instalment of his "The Food of the Gods" in Pearson's and thought it extremely good apart from a few minor verbal infelicities. Wells's reputation is high in Paris and I am sure he would be suitably feted there. Anyway, I would like to see him. I am starting to think that I have been here long enough. The place has interested me but one can have too much of a good thing.
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