Very feeble tonight.

I haven’t had the usual notification from the agency that there is to be an Italian lesson tomorrow. The absence of one would be a pleasant surprise. I think there is more homework to be done, besides the story about Galileo. I must go to bed now: I’ll have to see what I can do in the morning. And much of the morning, anyway, will have to be devoted to cheering for South Africa (a) in the hopes of seeing England beaten and (b) for love of my new great-nephew-in-law Manaba, father of next April’s baby. Alexander says England will win.

I moved forward with the Dathan, and have reached 200 stitches. I am putting each colour into a cloth bag as I finish with it. But I don’t know if I will draw them out at random. I might spread them all out as before. I think choosing which width of stripe to do next is even more vexing than choosing which colour, because the choice is so limited.

Reading

“The Small House at Allington” was rather a disappointment, as you hint, Shandy. I felt several times that the old boy was padding it out. For the moment, I have gone on to “Olive, Again”. It’s grey, all right – full of old age and the fear of death.

But how about this, from Trollope: There has been a distinctly dull dinner party at Lord De Guest’s. The vicar and his wife, Mr and Mrs Boyce, were there. They are insignificant characters – but a village needs a vicar.

“Uncommon good stewed beef,” he said, as he went home. “Why can’t we have our beef stewed like that?”

“Because we don’t pay our cook sixty pounds a year,” said Mrs Boyce.

“A woman with sixteen pounds can stew beef as well as a woman with 60,” said he; “she only wants looking after.”

Some things don’t change, and Trollope certainly has a good ear.