Lunedì, il 24 d'Agosto, 1942
I used to look at the portraits of myself at 14 and 15 and think what a fool I was.
Now I think maybe that little girl knew more than I gave her credit for. At sixty and sixty-two we're almost as smart as we were at fourteen and sixteen.
I promised myself I wasn't going to show off the ring (it would be gauche, after all, since he's not yet divorced and I did say repeatedly that I would never marry again) but if I don't keep staring at it people are going to keep asking me.
Bee wants to come over this week and have a chat. I think what she really wants is pear tarts and advice. But I can't tell her how to turn one man into another. Not only is she not cut out to be a mistress, she's got a Wilkes on her hands, and really they're all rakes. The Ozzer (I have no earthly idea why everyone calls him that, but everyone does!) used to make the most delicate, refined, absolutely unmistakeable passes at me before he realised that it annoyed Edward past sensibility, and I've been sending girls to his house for the last five years. The only difference between him and his nephew is that his nephew is pretty...and willing to spend the time and energy necessary to seduce the women he wants, whereas the Ozzer is too busy with other things and prefers to spend money on the problem.