I told myself from time to time that things would improve once the season began and that people would come down from London to visit us and to see the plays. But it did not much console me. The only occasion on which I did try to arrange a small outing for David and myself turned out to be a fiasco: we had a letter one morning from a Welsh friend of David’s, saying that he was coming to the Oxford Playhouse to do a show, and could he come over to see us one evening. He was one of David’s more troublesome acquaintances, and evenings with him usually ended with breakages, but to please David and because I myself felt in need of a little cheap riot I said that I would be delighted to see him, so we fixed an evening, and David said that he would ask Neville and one or two others round for a meal. As the day drew near, I began to look forward to this chap’s arrival with unusual interest: although he was himself an actor, at least he would presumably talk about things other than The White Devil, The Clandestine Marriage, Wyndham Farrar, the dressing room facilities and whether Sophy Brent could act or not. Then, on the morning of the day that I was expecting him, just as I was busy separating endless eggs for a mousse, the telephone rang. I answered it: it was one of the secretary girls from the theatre, and she asked me if I could give David a message, which was to remind him to bring his record of Dowland along to rehearsal with him that evening. I said yes without thinking, being used to such messages, and then I took in what she had said.