It has been warm and sunny for the past few days, and the elms and plane-trees across the road are beginning to riot in their green bravery, as if intoxicated with the golden wine of spring.

My French window is flung wide open, and on the balcony a triangular bit of sunlight creeps round as the morning advances.

My work-table is drawn up to the window.

I am busy over the first section of my "History of Renaissance Morals," for which I think my notes are completed.

I have a delicious sense of isolation from the world.