Sunday
Valentine’s Day. My birthday, 33 years old. It is curious that I never gave the day a thought all morning, until at lunchtime Mrs. Sisson rang up, and wished me “many happy returns.”
Cleaned Robin today. His feet want attention, as they are getting very long.
Left at half past 4, and went home to tea. Found a birthday card from the Rallings. Took butter and eggs for Mrs. Green and Mrs. Fletcher, and left them at the Grammar School. Then to the office, doing letters.
Supper at Culver St., and then down to the Muniment Room, going through prints, photos, etc, refreshing my memory. Felt very depressed, about Poulter and the Museum, and because the papers today were talking about another great “comb-out”, although only men under 30 were specially mentioned. How nice to be 33! How much nicer to be 43!
Stayed in the Muniment Room longer than I intended and came up to find it nearly 3 o’clock. Went to the Castle, hoping to get some rest, only to find the door bolted on the inside, and no shouting or knocking would attract the attention of the men upstairs. At last I went back to Holly Trees, and lay in great discomfort on a sofa in the Drawing Room, with my head on a cushion, waiting for the morning.
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