We had arived at the house by that time and I invited him to come in.  But he only glansed bitterly at the Windows and observed that they had taken in the mat with Welcome on it, as far as he was concerned.  And went away.

Although we have never had a mat with Welcome on it.

Dear Dairy, I wonder if father would do it?  He is gentle and kind-hearted, and it would be painfull to him.  But to who else can I turn in my extremity?

I have but one hope.  My father is like me.  He can be coaxed and if kindly treated will do anything.  But if aproached in the wrong way, or asked to do somthing against his principals, he becomes a Roaring Lion.

He would never be bully-ed into giving a Man work, even so touching a Personallity as Adrian’s.

Later:  I meant to ask father tonight, but he has just heard of Beresford and is in a terrable temper.  He says Sis can’t marry him, because he is sure there are plenty of things he could be doing in England, if not actualy fighting.

“He could probably run a bus, and releace some one who can fight,” he shouted.  “Or he could at least do an honest day’s work with his hands.  Don’t let me see him, that’s all.”

“Do I understand that you forbid him the house?” Leila asked, in a cold furey.

“Just keep him out of my sight,” father snaped.  “I supose I can’t keep him from swilling tea while I am away doing my part to help the Allies.”

“Oh, rot!” said Sis, in a scornfull maner.  “While you help your bank account, you mean.  I don’t object to that, father, but for Heaven’s sake don’t put it on altruistic grounds.”

She went upstairs then and banged her door, and mother merely set her lips and said nothing.  But when Beresford called, later, Tanney had to tell him the Familey was out.

Were it not for our afections, and the necessity for getting married, so there would be an increase in the Population, how happy we could all be!

Later:  I have seen father.

It was a painfull evening, with Sis shut away in her room, and father cuting the ends off cigars in a viscious maner.  Mother was non EST, and had I not had my memories, it would have been a Sickning Time.

I sat very still and waited until father softened, which he usualy does, like ice cream, all at once and all over.  I sat perfectly still in a large chair, and except for an ocasional sneaze, was quiet.

Only once did my parent adress me in an hour, when he said: 

“What the devil’s making you sneaze so?”

“My noze, I think, sir,” I said meekly.

“Humph!” he said.  “It’s rather a small noze to be making such a racket.”

I was cut to the heart, dear Dairy.  One of my dearest dreams has always been a delicate noze, slightly arched and long enough to be truly aristocratic.  Not realy acqualine but on the verge.  I hate my little noze—­hate it—­hate it—­hate it.