The morning he spent in his small bedroom in the soothing throes of literary composition.
Some time ago he had thought it would be a mighty fine thing to be a poet, and had tried his hand at verse.

Finding he possessed some facility, he decided that he was a poet, and at once started an epic poem in rhyme on the Life of Nelson, the material being supplied by Southey.

This morning he did the Battle of the Baltic.
He put the glass to his blind eye, And said "No signals do I spy," wrote Paul.

Poetry taken at the gallop like this was a very simple affair, and Paul covered an amazing amount of ground.
In the afternoon he walked abroad with Jane, who, having lengthened her skirts and put up her hair, was now a young woman looking older than her years.

She too had developed.