uth."

Michael Angelo did not like San Gallo; neither did he like Bramante-who
was his senior by thirty years-but this makes his appreciation of the
elder's work all the more generous.

Tinkered away at it, indeed!

May 21st.

I spent all the morning at work by the open window.

I have a small house in Lingfield Terrace, on the north side of the
Regent's Park, so that my drawing-room, on the first floor, has a
southern aspect. It has been warm and sunny for the past few days, and
the elms and plane-trees across the road are beginning to riot in their
green bravery, as if intoxicated with the golden wine of spring. My
French window is flung wide open, and on the balcony a triangular bit of
sunlight creeps round as the morning advances. My work-table is drawn
up to the window. I am busy over the first section of my "History of
Renaissance Morals," for which I think my notes are completed. I have a
delicious sense of isolation from the world. Away over those tree-tops
is a faint purpurine pall, and below it lies London, with its strife and
its misery, its wickedness and its vanity. Twenty minutes would take
me into the heart of it. And if I chose I could be as struggling, as
wretched, as much imbued with wickedness and vanity as anybody. I could
gamble on the stock exchange, or play the muddy game of politics, or
hawk my precious title for sale among the young women of London society.
My Aunt Jessica once told me that London was at my feet. I am quite
content that it should stay there. I have much the same nervous dread
of it as I have of an angry sea breaking in surf on the shingle. If I
ventured out in it I should be tossed hither and thither and broken on
the rocks, and I should perish. I prefer to stand aloof and watch. If I
had a little more of daring in my nature I might achieve something. I am
afraid I am but a waster in the world's factory; but kind Fate, instead
of pitching me on the rubbish-heap, has preserved me, perhaps has set me
under a glass case, in her own museum, as a curiosity. Well, I am happy
in my shelter.

I was interrupted in my writing by the entrance of my cook and
housekeeper, Antoinette. She was sorry to disturb me, but did Monsieur
like sorrel? She was preparing some _veau a l'oseille_ for lunch, and
Stenson (my man) had informed her that it was disgusting stuff and that
Monsieur would not eat it.

"Antoinette," said I, "go and inform Stenson that as he looks after
my outside so do y