Ruthless

Friday, February 21st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I have been up to my neck in the mud of work, especially proof-correcting. But I have at least got my improper novel entirely off my mind and don't want to hear anything more about it except highly favourable reviews and immense cheques. 

There was a bomb on St. Pancras Hotel on Sunday night and on Chelsea Hospital on Saturday night. No official casualty figures as far as I have heard. Yesterday there was a fog. We now like fogs and rain - except on moonless nights.

Lunch with Rosher to meet Kennedy Jones at Thatched House Club. He is a Glasgow man, aged 52, with pale eyes, and when talking he screws them up a little, and looks far away as if cogitating on the most difficult and interesting aspects of what he is discussing. Largely affectation I think. He struck me as a powerful and ruthless man, but I wouldn't have any of his ruthlessness. When he was firm, I was firmer. In spite of the superior knowledge of which he boasts he has already lost two bets to Rosher about the war. I wouldn't like to be one of his 'men', but he was interesting enough to meet.