Managed to scribble a hasty pencil note to H. this morning before the chaos descended. I feel as if I am doubling the parts of Martha and Granville Barker here—managing the house and the entertainment all at once. The 'Constitutional Crisis' over Ireland follows him even here; he sat for hours writing about the Ulster exclusion, his face grey with the boredom of it. I disappeared early the other night just to breathe. Cys is doing better; the doctor says he need only telegraph on alternate days now. Oh, to be abroad with H. again, away from all this performance—though sometimes I wonder if it is the performance he loves, or me.
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