At last I have begun to receive catalogues from second-hand book-sellers in Paris. I ordered 3 cheap books this afternoon, to make a commencement. This afternoon M., Emily and I went for a walk in the forest. Many people. A too sophisticated air. At the Caverne Augas a man with candles, on the make. Beautiful paths and glimpses and set panoramas, but unpleasing because part of a set show. Then sudden arrival on the Route Nationale 5 bis. Autos struggling up it, noisily, all the time, in a faint cloud of dust. Bicyclists, chiefly walking. General Sundayish. Something that rouses always the exclusive , aristocrat in one. M. getting tired, and more tired, and assuring herself by questions that I am taking the nearest way home. Then the arrival, amidst forced cheerfulness, and the realization that one’s feet ache. I ran upstairs to read catalogues. The first languors of summer sunsets. House overrun with ants. New carpets arrived this morning, re-arousing pride in our toy house. I forewent my afternoon sleep in order finally to arrange the second spare bedroom.
Journals of Arnold Bennett, Sunday, May 17t 1908.