schoolboys and
schoolgirls fell on us, as if the battle were still to come instead
of raging round us.

May 24th. We went together to see George Meredith. I suppose many
people have seen him in his little Surrey Cottage; Flint Cottage,
Boxhill. He has a wonderful face and a frail old body. He talks
without stopping except to drink ginger-beer. He told us many
stories, mostly about society scandals of some time back. I remember
he asked Gilbert, "Do you like babies?" and when Gilbert said, "Yes,"
he said "So do I, especially in the comet stage."

June 5th. Granville Barker came to see Gilbert, touching the
possibility of a play.

June 29th. A garden party at the Bishop's House, Kennington. The
Bishop told me that A. J. Balfour was very impressed with "Heretics."
Guild of St. Matthew Service and rowdy supper. Gilbert made an
excellent speech.

July 5th. Gilbert dined at the Asquiths; met Rosebery. I think he
hated it.

July 16th. Gilbert went to see Mrs. Grenfell at Taplow. He met
Balfour, Austen Chamberlain and George Wyndham. Had an amusing time,
no doubt. Says Balfour is most interesting to talk to but appears
bored. George Wyndham is delightful.

One felt always with both Frances and Gilbert that this society life
stayed on the surface--amusing, distracting, sometimes welcome,
sometimes boring--but never infringing the deeper reality of their
relationships with old friends, with their own families, with each
other. Frances wrote endless business and other letters for them
both: in just a handful, mainly to Father O'Connor, does she show her
deeper life of thought and feeling. Gilbert had little time now for
writing anything but books and articles. Never a very good
correspondent he had become an exceedingly bad one. Annie Firmin's
engagement to Robert Kidd produced one of the few letters that exist.
It is handwritten and undated.

A Restaurant somewhere.

MY DEAR ANNIE,

I have thought of you, I am quite certain, more often than I have
of any human being for a long time past--except my wife who recalls
herself continually to me by virtues, splendours, agreeable memories,
screams, pokers, brickbats and other things. And yet, though whenever
my mind was for an instant emptied of theology and journalism and
patriotism and such rot, it has been immediately filled with you, I
have never written you a line.

I am not