I go to Baffy’s lunch at Chandos, where Bernard Fergusson is holding forth and one Anne Balfour, her niece. Then down to Mongewell Park where I meet Angela for the dance. Her parents come over, but I didn’t feel too good about things, and retire to bed somewhat confused.
Saturday she brings me over to Stockenchurch, and after lunch I take her for a walk, determined to say my piece, but still not feeling as though I was floating on a cloud. Rather the reverse, as though an abyss was at my feet. With some difficulty I spill the beans, with the rider that I don’t feel as happy as I should. She says she hasn’t known me very long, and we decide that I should take her away for another week, on approval, down to St Ives.
Her parents, she tells, and they soon overtake us on the fairway, and are practically putting on the green before we have driven off the tee. I have a session in the library with Dr Elliott and deny any insanity etc in my family, and say I can keep her on my pay, without feeling inclined to go into various financial difficulties that may well arise. Saturday night we rather bill and coo on the sofa until 1am, and on Sunday we drive over to Mongewell to try and get A. off for a week.
Today I drive her to work, in a 1933 Morris 8, the first time I have driven a car in the UK since 1937, and am going up to town shortly, hoping to meet her this evening and go down to St Ives tomorrow.
I ring up Ma, who didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic – so we shall see.
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