“Not since the fateful week-end of August, 1914, when the destinies of Europe were decided in a few hours, have issues of such gravity engaged the attention of the British race....”  Dreadful.  I shall get some tennis tomorrow.  I shan’t be called.  I shall get up when the sun is on my face and not before.  I shall dress very, very slowly, looking at the sea and the sands and the sun, not rushing, not shaving properly, not thinking, not washing a great deal, just sort of falling into an old coat and some grey flannels....  Then I shall just sort of fall downstairs—­about half-past nine, and give the old barometer a bang.  Then breakfast, very deliberate, but cheerful, because the glass went up when I banged it—­it always goes up at that hotel ... like the cost of living.  Up another five points to-day, I see.  Bread’s going to be one-and-threepence.  But of course there won’t be any bread this winter, so the price doesn’t much matter.  But what about coal? and milk? and meat?  “Several new sets of wage claims are due for decision within the next few weeks, and it is possible that two of them at least may not be determined without a cessation of work.”  More strikes ...  But not for a week or two.  To-morrow there won’t be any papers at breakfast; there won’t be any letters.  I shan’t catch the 9.5.  After breakfast I shall smoke on the cliff—­then some tennis.  Most of the balls will go over the cliff, but when they have all gone one just slips down and bathes, and picks them up on the way.  Undress on the rocks—­no machines, no tents.  Jolly bathing.  Mixed, of course.  This Tonbridge councillor is on about that again, I see.  He ought to come to Mullion.  Mixed bathing depends entirely on the mixture.  He doesn’t realise that.  Of course, if he will bathe at Tonbridge ...

“In diplomatic circles no one is attempting to conceal that the situation is extremely grave.”  Now which situation is that?  That must be one of these world-plots.  Don’t really see how civilisation can carry on more than a week or two now.  Lucky I only took a single, perhaps.  It was only two pounds, but I hadn’t enough for a return.  Never shall have enough, probably—­but no matter.  If the world is coming to an end, might as well be in a good part of it at the time.  And it would be sickening to be snuffed out with an unused return-ticket in one’s pocket.

On the sands after lunch—­build a few castles and dams and things for the children—­at least, not altogether for the children, not so much as they think, anyhow.  Tea at the farm, with plenty of cream, possibly an egg ...  No eggs this winter, I see; some question of non-unionists.  Then a little golf before dinner—­and perhaps a little dancing afterwards.  Coffee, anyhow ...

Then The Times arrives, all wrapped up, just as one is explaining about the seventh hole.  It is all stiff and crinkly, and one spends a long time rearranging it, flattening out the folds ...