Wyndham wrote me a letter. I was tremendously touched by it, for I think I had never expected him, after all that secrecy, to commit himself, even after the event, in writing. It had a charming literate clumsiness. Poor old Wyndham, I think he is basically a sham, he has all the attributes of quality without quality itself, though I may well think that because I wish to think it, having lost him. And do not underestimate me. Although I choose to lose, I also choose that same word loss to describe my choice. Things happen, but not easily. Wyndham said in his letter that he had been very unhappy on my account, and felt very responsible for me, or would feel responsible if he did not think I could get on better without him and indeed quite well without anyone. He said that he was going to make a film, and that Edmund Carpenter was working on the script, and that he thought Harriet Peters was going to be in it; had I ever met Harriet, she looked a little like me, and like me, seemed to live on hors d’oeuvres. He said that he hoped my children were well and that he would never fall in love with a woman with children again.

I could see Wyndham dining out with Harriet Peters and telling her anecdotes about me. I was glad to have given him a little material. It was all the same to me, one way or the other.

The only person who did not come to visit me on my sickbed was Julian. I noticed this after some time, and finally asked David where he was. David looked green, and tried to put me off, and then told me that Julian had chucked himself into the river the day after my accident, and had been fished out two miles farther down. It appeared that the strain of deciding whether or not to continue being an actor and whether or not to give in to Michael Fenwick had proved too much for him. Indecision drowned him. I used to be like Julian myself, but now I have two children, and you will not find me at the bottom of any river. I have grown into the earth, I am terrestrial. It is hard in such a state, particularly when it is achieved through labour, to remember sufficiently and grieve sufficiently for those who are not; but it is necessary. In the case of Julian grief involved no effort, for I knew him and liked him. But the others must be thought of, too.