Had a most unpleasant dream about quarter to 6 this morning. I was with Hervey Benham and Maura, apparently in a field, and we were sitting on the grass, looking at pictures in a book. One showed a Thames barge fast on some rocks, a boat hanging from its davits on the starboard side, and the great red sail flapping. It was entitled “The Death”. The pictures were endowed with motion, like a film, and I could see the waves moving and the sail flapping. I had just drawn Benham’s attention to this fact, when a mighty bomb exploded nearby, with a blinding, yellow light and shattering roar. I crouched on the ground, my hands over my ears, and woke up in that position, sweat running off me and my heart pounding madly.
Wild stories in the papers today about “conscription for all”. Tonight heard one of the “Colonel Britton” broadcasts on the radio, the most puerile drivel I ever heard.