On arriving back at Oxford, I set about the task of rearranging the furniture in my study. Last term there was an embarrassing incident when Ian and Bendor had come in unexpectedly, and almost caught me in the act of kissing [X]. So I have now arranged the sofa so that its back is diagonal to both doors, which should reduce the risk of such a crisis recurring.

I phoned [X], but she cannot come over this weekend after all, since she is unable to think up an appropriate excuse. It’s rather awful but I am missing her tremendously - awful because I would hardly find it convenient to marry her while I am still at Oxford. But there are times when I feel that this is the only solution.

Caroline Poole was here on Friday however, to give evidence in court on Bendor’s behalf. (He was fined £10 and disqualified from driving for six months.) I was just settling down in my room to do my essay when she arrived - followed by a whole troupe of males. These established themselves firmly in every available chair, remaining there until dinner time.

Caroline is rather fun and kept all the male company keyed up. But she is somehow typical of the young woman who is longing for all the romantic side of sex, but finds herself disgusted by the actual thought of doing it. I gave her a book to read called `Sexual Apathy and Coldness in Women’ - which had the effect of riveting her, while drawing expostulations of disgust from her at the same time.

The men meanwhile (who had all been drinking) were inspired by the subject of sex to try her out with some horse play. To begin with she appeared to be enjoying it all, but then must have taken alarm, for she remembered that she had a train to catch!

On Saturday morning Mariette Hornby arrived and took me over to their house. Sue seems to be developing a bad temper. They spend most of their time squabbling, but usually patch it up afterwards with a reluctant kiss. They are not a good advertisement for marital bliss.

Bobby and Ann Dolby were also there, with a demonstration of married life that was marginally more encouraging. But even here I sensed a perpetual antagonism between the sexes, regardless of their marital ties.

I do hope that, when I marry, it will not give rise to such a perpetual state of antagonism. But I secretly feel that there is little chance of it being otherwise. I have yet to see a marriage which really seems to be working.

It became evident however, that college beds were not designed for fornication. [X] found it far too uncomfortable to get any sleep, and kept on waking me up to inform me so. And she had dragged all the blankets on to her side of the bed, with the result that I almost froze to death, since we are in the grip of what might well be recorded as the winter’s coldest spell. And on top of all this I was feeling exceedingly frustrated, since [X] was having her period and was unresponsive. She kept on about the bed being so uncomfortable, and that she had a headache - when all I wanted was to get to sleep.

There were one or two anxious moments next morning when we could hear Quainton (the scout) tidying up next door. But at that time his suspicions had not been aroused. There was no call for his suspicion until later, when we could hear him making the bed - and then he had a surfeit. [X] had sworn to me that she never soiled the sheets when she had her periods but, as usual, this turned out to the one exception. Luckily it was only a small red mark, but it must have been enough to stir Quainton’s imagination. And [X]’s voice could now be heard conversing with me in the study. But she might have arrived to visit me after breakfast, so he had little of substance with which to convince anyone of our guilt. When I opened the bedroom door however, (in response to [X]’s request for a glass of water,) I caught him out in a position which appeared to indicate that he had been listening. He pretended that he had just come back to change a pillow-case, but I could see that he looked guilty. In any case I felt forewarned that he might now be trying to catch us out.

The sequel didn’t occur until the following morning, after [X] had in fact gone back home. Quite deliberately (if unnecessarily) I was sporting my oak - just to see if he had any tricks up his sleeve. And he did indeed come barging straight into my bedroom at an early hour - totally ignoring the convention that an undergraduate who sports his oak is signalling that he wishes to sleep late. On seeing me lying there alone in my bed, he stammered something about coming to fetch my dressing-gown which he had noticed required mending. It left me wondering if he had the Head Porter (and others of that ilk) waiting in the passage to respond to his summons, so that my guilt could be firmly established by an appropriate number of witnesses. If so, they must all have been sadly disappointed. But I shall have to be more careful about this in future. It would be so silly, and so unnecessary to conclude my career at Oxford prematurely, and with such a scandal.

The lighting was too bright, but this made very little difference to our behaviour - which became increasingly bad. I sometimes feel worried about my attitude towards that subject. Perhaps I ought to stop encouraging [X] to behave so amorously in public, in order to save her from getting herself a bad name. But as I’ve said before, I don’t really mind if people think she is behaving badly - so long as she is behaving badly with myself. I suppose this is just another example of my egoism, but I do see our futures as being tied up inextricably with each other, so that her reputation can be more or less identified with my own. We are a couple, and I intend that we shall remain so. And this is the manner in which I wish that we behave.

When we left the night-club, I imagine that everyone knew that I was going off to bed with [X] - which may be rather awful. I took her back to Caroline’s house, and we managed to creep up to the spare bedroom all right. She could only stay for a couple of hours, but it was one of the first times that we’ve been able to lie naked together in a large and comfortable bed, with the knowledge that there was no real worry even if we were to be discovered.

I never know for sure what Caroline’s attitude would be if she realized that I was bringing a girl back home to bed with me in her house, but I don’t think that she’d mind. She’d probably take pleasure in teasing me about it, in a manner where I couldn’t make out whether she really knew that I’d done so, or was just guessing. But David’s attitude might be less tolerant.

It may have been a mistake to write as I did, but I was trying to put our relationship on to a basis that might suit me - something distant and out of reach, but open to all manner of romantic fantasies. When I think of Lita, it is with a nostalgia for a love affair which never quite managed to take flight. But I cherish all the memories of anticipating such flight - which in themselves are perhaps more magnificent than any disillusioned reality - even though there was never even as much as a kiss.

After dinner on Saturday I went along to Desmond Guinness’ party in Christ Church. It took me some time to get into the right spirit, but when it did come, it was all too quickly. I found myself proposing marriage to someone called [N], whom David Faulkener had brought with him. David promptly threatened to inform [X].

This and a few other incidents (triggered by [H]) caused a little champagne to get spilt down each others’ necks, which in turn caused us to get locked out from the party. We pleaded through the keyhole to be permitted re-entry - until Desmond came out, officiously attempting to persuade us to go away. But some of our own friends on the inside then seized the opportunity to lock him out as well. So this gave us our cue to defend the rights of the host in demanding that the door be opened so that he could participate within his own party. And we won our own re-entry at the same time of course. But our behaviour had to be more subdued after that.

Just before the party came to an end, I was tackled by [C] (who is rumoured to be working for one of the gossip columns) on the subject of [X]. She wanted me to tell her the name of "that beautiful creature" she’d seen in my company, and more specifically whether I was engaged to her - etc. I tried to give her misleading impressions without any definite answers. But in retrospect I feel it might have been wiser if I’d told her bluntly that we were indeed secretly engaged to one another, as that might have prevented the turn of events later on that same evening.

After Desmond’s party had come to an end, I took [C] on with me to Belinda Bristowe’s party. There were in fact three hostesses, and they all looked distinctly put out to see me arriving in the company of a girl they didn’t know - a girl who probably struck them as looking a bit vampish. There was a darkened room which served as a night-club, and [C] became quite sexy in her style of dancing - until eventually we were kissing. I had to decide whether or not to stay there with her, for she was hinting that I could come back to her hotel with her. But I felt disinclined not only because of some inner reluctance to be unfaithful to [X], but also because my leg (although out of its plaster cast) is still in weakened estate. I’m not sure how well it would stand up to the ordeal of climbing in over the wall at Christ Church, if I didn’t get back before the gates were closed at midnight.

My sex appeal has received quite a boost over the course of the evening, in that I was told (by Belinda) that there were a whole number of girls who had been hoping for an introduction. One of them (Sarah Barlowe) was looking quite sour with [C] for occupying so much of my attention. But apart from the gratification to my personal vanity, it could all have been a bit of a mistake.

I would say without any shadow of doubt that I am now in love with [X], and I’d be miserable if I were to lose her. I am worried that my evening with [C] might lead on to something more involved. I very much doubt that she’d continue a relationship with me if it became evident that there was no prospect of going to bed with me. And on a theoretical level, such sex would furnish me with valuable experience without any real danger that I might fall in love with her. I say that because [C] is a little older than me, and she’s obviously accustomed to the idea of being a mistress rather than a wife. Moreover she appears to remain on good terms with former lovers when they become engaged to someone else - as was in evidence when she kissed Reggie Bosanquet on the cheek. Such a relationship might well be ideal for me to cultivate.

I find [C] attractive, and I should imagine that she has ample sexual experience. But her personality seems kindly, even if she is a good-time-girl. I don’t suppose she has any money - which opens up a whole list of dangerous pitfalls where extreme caution might be necessary. But it might well be an ideal relationship for me, if I could go to bed with her fairly regularly, without making any secret to her about my intention to marry [X] - eventually, once I have got my degree at Oxford.

But how would [X] take to such an idea? I suspect that she’d protest vigorously. Perhaps if I only told her after the affair was finished, she’d actually be glad to know that I’d gleaned some extra experience before she had full claim on me. But I don’t think she’d take it at all well if she heard about what was going on while the affair still lasted. She’d probably run off and find herself a lover of her own. And I’m uncertain as to what might be my reaction to that. I might feel too hurt to find forgiveness in my heart - which would mean the collapse of everything. And that the last thing that I want to happen.

That makes me examine the possibility of having such an affair, but keeping it secret from [X] until the end of my time at Oxford. But I don’t see that working. Details would get back to [X] one way or another, and there would be hell to pay; and it would then be twice as problematic than if I’d told her about it of my own accord. It would also stand in conflict to the principle I try to uphold - of total candour in my life. And if I depart from that principle, then I couldn’t expect [X] to adhere to it either.

What I may do is to broach the situation to her in abstract form, only filling in the details if she should ask me to do so. I find myself uncertain how I should judge my own behaviour - or rather, my intended pattern of behaviour. Would it be grossly unfaithful of me if I were to have this affair with [C]? - just to gain sexual experience? My own inclination is to regard it as excusable. Or are my ethics just a confused hotch-potch of egoism, rebellion against the established order, and the sheer conceit in holding to a dual standard in sexual morality? Conceit too in that [C] might not be giving any thought at all to such a relationship with me. So it’s all rather pointless at the moment for me to contemplate the possibilities any further. But I did invite [C] to call in and see me again, whenever she’s next in Oxford, and she said that she would.

Laurence was still coming, since he wanted to attend Jinny Waldegrave’s wedding in Bath. And [X] agreed to come, to keep us both company - although the arrangement for her to have a room at Nan’s cottage fell through since Nan was in the process of moving into her new house. So [X] found (to her horror) that she had to stay at Job’s Mill.

I enjoyed the weekend very much. My new Triumph sports car has arrived, and I drove [X] all round the estate - finding that it reacts wonderfully to the slightest touch on the accelerator.

Dad said he liked Laurence very much. I can foresee that Laurence is going to get held up to me as another `unmatchable’ - like Richard S - whenever the possibility for comparison arises. In contrast to that, Dad’s reluctance to make any comment whatsoever concerning what he thinks about [X] might be interpreted as a negative reaction. He has never really spoken to me about her, and I’m unable to tell whether this is because he disapproves, or because he thinks it safest not to influence his son’s opinion of a girlfriend one way or the other.

I hardly quarrelled with [X] at all over the entire weekend. I think we are getting the knack of avoiding issues over which a quarrel might arise. She has become more dependent upon me of late, which I regard as a good point. Indeed I’m inclined to think that she does genuinely love me now - whereas before she was just recognizing a need for there to be someone to love. In the past, she wouldn’t have been too grief-stricken to lose me - provided there was always someone else, like [M], available for her to love. But now it may be different. I think she would be miserable if I left her, whether or not [M] were to reappear on her scene.

I know that I would be miserable if the converse situation were to arise. It might be partly a question of hurt pride, but I doubt if I could ever find someone who could really replace her. I mean her personality. I am becoming dependent on a constant reaction with it, and if she were to leave me, that would entail a real loss to me rather than any mere hurt pride.

I might go into the question of a definition for love. But it’s all too complex - and like looking at an aeroplane and asking how high is "high". Different types of personality are obliged to treat the issue differently. Latins may demand some notion of inseparability from the loved one, whereas Anglo-Saxons look for companionship even more than they expect sexual gratification. And the truth of the matter is that I haven’t really worked out how it is that I fit together with [X]. But the adhesion is definitely there - with the main problem being our slightly quarrelsome natures.

There are times when I’m subject to depression, and then it’s not so good. I lose interest in her, because I have lost interest in life in general. On those occasions I may find myself wondering if we are truly compatible. But the moods pass.

Therefore I don’t hesitate in saying that I am in love with [X] - although there is still room for improvement within our scope for good companionship, as something complementary to my perpetual desire for sex.

I cadged a lift from Laurence for the return trip to Oxford, obtaining an interesting insight into his personality. He is incredibly stingy. After all the hospitality that had been lavished upon him, he discovers that he hasn’t sufficient money to pay for the petrol required to get us back there - so he asks me to help him out. But I overheard him quietly instructing the garage owner to fill everything up to the brim - far higher than was necessary for the journey. Of course he casually remarked that he would pay me back. Some hope!

On Wednesday I went up to London to Mariette’s wedding. I’d arranged to meet [X] beforehand at Caroline’s house, and everything went according to plan. I also took her back there afterwards. Caroline and David had just departed for a brief holiday in Italy, so we were able to make ideal use of their drawing-room. I returned to Oxford on the last train.

On Thursday Caroline Poole and [Y] descended upon Oxford. I ran into Caroline while walking down the High Street, and had a brief chat with her. Then after I’d finished my various errands, I called in on Laurence and persuaded him to come along with me to see if we could catch up with the girls. We found them in Ian’s room and I invited them all to come on to my own rooms where the drinking continued. That turned out to be expensive, since Adam K managed to get through half a bottle of brandy all by himself.

After a while we were all getting quite party-spirited, and I found myself becoming a bit loose-handed with Caroline. And Laurence was quick to follow suit with similar tactics on the other side of her. She was subjected to increasingly sexy advances, as we both vied with each other to obtain the greater interest from her. I think I won. After I had felt Laurence’s hand moving up inside her blouse, on the other side to my own, we had a short scuffle around the region of her breasts. We then made a dive for her lips, and I came to the conceited conclusion that she preferred mine. So I put Kelly off-side by dragging her over my body to the other side of me. And this reduced Laurence to a state of morbid frustration - which may give rise to some ill feeling, and desire to get his own back on me. But I won’t worry about that for the time being.

The others weren’t taking any notice at all of our lecherous behaviour, largely because [Y] was involved in an earnest conversation of her own with Adam - until it occurred to him that he ought to encourage us by switching out the lights. Caroline then decided to go and comb her hair. I took this as an invitation for me to follow her into my bedroom, and I think I was right, in that she kicked off her shoes as I entered. We were kissing, but she didn’t allow me to go very far - which was fortunate in a way, since I don’t feel that it would be right for me to get too involved with her.

On the issue of my morals, I feel that it might do me the world of good to have some sex with girls other than [X] - so long as it can all be perfectly clear from the very start that I am not intending to fall in love with them. I need to be straight about it being mutual pleasure that I am seeking from them, rather than love. I’m not sure how I would judge the remarks if I heard them upon someone else’s lips. It’s really the candour which I’m trying to cultivate. I’ve got to play it straight with everyone - even if that makes it plain that I’m sometimes wanting sex, and not love. As far as the latter is concerned, I regard myself as [X]’s property.

Our games were suspended when we all trooped off to the Grid for dinner. But our arrival produced the effect of a squib in a convent. We had drunk too much, so the polite tone of the conversation was soon becoming ambiguous. I know that I shocked the Eggletons (who run the place) with some lewd comments about the number of fingers that each person had up - when a count was demanded as to who wanted bananas. Their faces were so primly disapproving.

The evening ended on a bit of an unpleasant note, because [Y] snatched the photograph of a girl that Adam had taken from his wallet, and she read the inscription that was written on the back. Adam muttered some words in anger - something like: "You bitch - Lady Fucking Bitch!" Then he fell silent, turning strangely white. [Y] made things a lot better by apologizing to him, and making out that she hadn’t managed to read whatever was written on the back of the photograph. Then I remarked that it was perhaps time for us all to go home to bed.

On Friday I was taking [X] to the Drag Hunt Ball. We had dinner in Alain Camu’s room - very good with both lobster and chicken. We were a trifle late in leaving for the dance which was at Raymond Carr’s house. On arrival, Nicholoudis asked me why I was wearing a morning tail-coat instead of evening tails. It was only then that I realized what I had done, which threw me into some confusion. In fact I jumped back into the car (accompanied by [X]) and sped back to Christ Church to switch into a dinner jacket. I appear to have left my evening tails at Longleat.

Once we were back at the dance, I stayed with [X] all evening. We spent most of the time in a special sitting-out room where the atmosphere was greatly improved after Raymond Carr had crept in with a lecherous leer on his face, dragging [G] by the hand, to announce that it would all be far more cosy if the lights were turned out.

It was 03.30 hrs when we finally left and, even then, spent a quiet hour parked down a side lane. We both felt it had been an enjoyable dance.

Next morning [X] came round to my room (from her hotel) before I had got up, and climbed into bed with me. In fact it was tempting to stay there all day, since we were both feeling very tired. But we did finally get up and I took her for a run in my TR 2. Then after lunch at The Bear, we put in an appearance at the Point to Point - which I found very dull. [X] was then stricken with menstrual pains, and asked to be taken home. I wasn’t sorry to be leaving before it came to an end.

On Sunday morning [X] came round to my room as before but, luckily, she did not take off her clothes. I say luckily because, on hearing a slight noise, I looked up to find that the bedroom door was now ajar. So I assume that Quainton had poked his head round the door and quickly retired. We were only slightly alarmed, since she was visiting my rooms at a permitted hour. But we got up and went into the study. In any case, the scout did nothing about it, so I conclude that he is gradually learning that he must be more discreet, and hopefully pause to knock in future, before entering my bedroom.

We then decided to drive over to Eton to take Val out to tea - lunching at Chez Peter in Henley on the way. Valentine appeared to be pleased to see us. On returning to Oxford, we were never left much to ourselves, being disturbed by a succession of visitors. Then Bendor arrived to say that Ian was throwing some drinks. So we went round there, but found that he was just leaving for dinner. We stayed on and drank the rest of his whiskey. Bendor offered to drive me and [X] to Paris when he next goes out there, and he promised to keep it a secret from everyone else. But the problem arises once again, to see if [X] can get hold of her passport.

Finally we had to rush to the station so that [X] could catch her train.

On Monday an awful piece appeared in the Daily Express, sneering at the high jinx of the smart set at the Drag Hunt Ball. Thank God thy left me out of it for once. But the general tone was awful, to be summed up in the final line which read: "But the whole party was smart; so smart - so terribly smart."

After my tutorial, I drove round to see [G] to find - amusingly! - that Raymond Carr was having tea with her. Neither of them had seen the article, and both of them were thrown into a panic once they had read it - [G] because she was named as being present, although she hadn’t obtained leave from her college to attend, and Raymond because he was liable to prosecution for organizing a roulette wheel at the party. When I left them, they were in despair.

Ian then told me that [Y] and Caroline had been seen through the lace curtain of George Hastings’ room, so we went round there and found that the report was true. During the evening we drank quite an amount of brandy, and the party ended with us all discordantly singing dirty songs.

Caroline in particular was getting tight, and there was a bit of a fuss when she started crying - something which I didn’t notice myself, but was told about it later, after she had departed. Apparently she is emotionally upset - although the reason remained unstated. It could be because Bendor still prefers [Y] to herself, or it could be because I wasn’t showing enough attention to her myself.

On Thursday Laurence and Alain gave a party which combined the atmospheres of cocktails, dinner and night-club. [X] came up for it, but only after a great scene with her mother, during which she was almost forbidden to come. It sounds to me as if [X] was at fault, since there would have been no fuss if she had given Mrs [X] sufficient forewarning. I’m afraid that [X] lacks the nerve to bring difficult subjects into public focus. She puts off any discussion about it, which often serves to increase the size of the problem.

After the party I took her to bed in my room - risking it again! She very nearly agreed fully to sacrifice her virginity on this occasion, but she remains dubious on whether she might hate herself for it next morning. I didn’t become too assertive.

Next morning she telephoned her mother to ask if she could come home by a later train, but she was persuaded to take the earlier one. Afterwards [X] was in tears, saying that she hated her mother, and a whole lot of other things like that. It made me guilty that I am responsible for augmenting such a gulf between the two of them, because I find myself taking the mother’s side instinctively - despite the emotional support that I clearly want [X] to feel that she can derive for me.

I have neglected to recount how I am subject to a mounting depression on the subject of that letter I wrote to Lita more than a month ago, and which she hasn’t answered. I had it in my mind that we could develop a beautifully romantic Latin-style love affair, through the medium of letter-writing - but almost in the abstract, without actually seeing one another. The letter I sent her was written, as I supposed at the time, in a deeply sensitive and poetic manner. But as time elapses without any answer being sent, I’ve been reconsidering its content, and I have now reached such a pitch of inner embarrassment that I find myself squirming, and blushing crimson. There were parts when I described the "lilting tones" of her voice, or compared myself to one of "the trees in the forest" which surround her, or referred to Paris in the winter as "the chilled embers of the world’s vivacity". When I think that this was a letter to a girl who had just vaguely admired me, I now find myself in a turmoil of embarrassment.

I have reached a point when I believe that if I don’t receive an answer of some (any) description in the near future, then I’m going to develop a heavy attack of insomnia. It makes me comprehend how people can rush off and shoot themselves over quite trivial matters. I’m not suggesting that I’m remotely liable to do so myself, but it just enables me to comprehend!

I wish to God that she’d write - to let me know one way or the other how I stand. Nothing is more frightening than the undefined. She could write and tell me what a silly little fool I’ve made of myself, and I’d feel a great deal better. It would furnish me with something solid for me to digest, and against which I could then react in whatever manner I might find to be appropriate.

All this stupid worry does pose the question whether I am still in love with Lita. I hope that it is merely my love for the unattainable. But it’s hard to maintain that position because she was attainable. But it’s [X] that I love, and I don’t want to lose her. It would be stupid of me to risk that love by permitting something unattainable to cast a shadow over it. I am confident that I shall avoid that outcome.

There was much depression in Oxford over Ian and Bendor getting rusticated. We have all been trying to cheer them up, but have only succeeded in catching their depressions.

Incidentally my private depression upon the subject of that letter I wrote to Lita has now abated. I had been anticipating that she just might reply to me on the ninth of this month, but she didn’t. So I should now regard my little affair as a closed book. And one day I may cease squirming when I think about what I wrote.

[X] came over to see me on Friday - she has finally passed her driving test - and twice during that afternoon, we almost got caught in compromising position. On the first occasion it was Algar, who was coming over to ask for my signature on a cheque - to cover the estate’s overdraft. I heard him coming, but only just had time to get ourselves sorted out into separate chairs before he came into the room. On the second occasion it is a miracle that we didn’t get caught, since we’d just spent about three hours naked in my bed, and had only just got dressed because it was time for me to drive her back home - when Chapman came up to say that I was wanted on the phone. A few minutes earlier, and we’d have still been in bed. I do need to look into the question of getting myself set up here in more self-contained fashion - without dependence upon other people’s telephones, and with locks to keep them out when so desired.

Today I went over to lunch with [X] . Fiona Menzies was also there. All went well, but I am distinctly worried about the difference between our temperaments. If we married, I suspect that I’d soon find our mentalities to be incompatible. The more I listen to the way [X] prattles on about all and sundry, the more I conclude that she is illogical in her ideas, and impractical in her manner of trying to realize them. Then there’s the rambling method of her conversation. Being as I am, I could hardly fail to get exasperated with her, if I was to try living with her over any length of time.

When she seeks to be critical about anyone, her evidence against them relies on the assumption of an exaggeratedly false tone of voice, which puts meaning where it was never intended. And it makes me sensitive to the way I’d react if she were to employ such tactics against myself.

Another point which worries me is the trust she places in fortune-tellers - or in palmistry and the like. I feel inclined to dismiss such methods of prediction as unscientific, but I wish I could feel greater confidence in the line I’ve chosen to take. (I do still find myself wondering about these matters.) But it irritates me when I see [X] paying so much attention to the fortunes which people like Fiona manage to see in her palm. I feel myself to be at their mercy - if they should advise her to ditch me. I would feel much better about her attitude if she happened to consult palmists who told her some encouraging news for a change!

On Wednesday I went up to London to see Mum, who was staying with Auberon Herbert. He had invited me to stay too....

Afterwards I outraged the hospitality of Auberon’s flat, by taking [X] back there to bed with me. I was scared stiff that we had been heard, since we were making quite a considerable row, with Mum and Xan being far too audible themselves in the room right above mine. But nobody made any remark upon the subject next morning - long after [X] had slipped away of course. The danger turned out to be far less than I’d been imagining however, since it transpired that Auberon had yet to return home from the country....

I had a bad row with [X] on Thursday night. She hated being stared at in the Exhibition Club by all of Mum’s friends, so she asked me to take her home. But when I apologized to Auberon for leaving his party, saying that [X] was tired, she became livid with me on the grounds that I had been utterly tactless. This became quite heated for a while, although we did make it up later - on the sofa at Jinny’s flat.

[X] came the nearest she has ever done to letting me take her over these past two days. She now agrees that it should happen in the near future. I hope that she does, since I find this way of conducting an affair to be most frustrating. But I love her very much - even if our approach to all manner of subjects is so very different.

This is the worst April Fool’s day that I have ever spent. [X] has missed her period, and we are both feeling intensely anxious. There’s nothing to do but wait - with hope diminishing daily. I do find it almost incredible if she has managed to get pregnant, but we’d better face up to it pretty quickly if she is. She has now gone 34 days when it usually arrives around the 30th day. On the face of it, she must have started a baby.

On the other hand I’ve never really taken her properly as yet. Her hymen is still theoretically intact, which ought to protect her to some extent from getting pregnant. And there’ve only been two occasions over the past month when we made love during the period she could have been ovulating - although we did calculate that she was in her safe period. And the most hopeful sign of all is that she is feeling all the symptoms that normally afflict her just before she menstruates. The real trouble is that her periods are becoming so irregular of late.

It would be such an unpropitious start to married life. I’ve never felt much respect for people who marry for such reasons. I’d far prefer to wait until I’m through with Oxford, and feel myself in a better position to know who I am, and who she is. But [X] has always expressed her horror of abortions, so I don’t see that as the solution - unless she came round to the idea, under the whole stress of the situation. She says she’ll let me take her to a doctor if nothing has arrived by Thursday. This waiting is unbearable. It would be better if I was with her.

I went down to Cornwall on Tuesday in a state of mental turmoil, for I had telephoned [X] to hear that she was still waiting for her period to arrive. And while in that mood, Mum began discussing a book called `Friends Apart’ by Philip Toynbee - the true story of a couple of undergraduates who eloped to Spain and got married. Perhaps Mum was mischievously suggesting it to me as a model for my own life. But it did set me wondering if it might not be best for us to do something similar - if it came to the point of having to marry [X] under these circumstances. If one is going to be involved in a scandal, then one might as well create an aura of romance around it.

In the event however, there is no need for such drastic measures, for [X] rang me on Tuesday evening to say she had the curse. I wish to God that her periods were more regular!

Since tomorrow is what I consider to be the last possible day when Lita might conceivably be going to reply to my letter, I think it’s time that I said some more on that subject. I have no real hope that she’s going to answer. I still blush crimson when I think about what I wrote. It sometimes makes me wonder if I’m not just a trifle mad. How could I ever have imagined that a sensitive girl might respond to such poetical nonsense? My only defence is that I was tight when I wrote it. But that’s no excuse as I read it through to myself next morning. It was a case of overweening conceit. I must have believed that my sex-appeal was irresistible.

The whole episode has left me in a quandary as to what I should do next. I can’t let matters rest as they stand. I must seek some release from my own embarrassment - and free Lita from it too. I think that another letter is required, but the question is what. I have thought hard about the matter. I shall just apologize, and put the blame upon the fact that I was tight. I’ll tell her that this is my last letter, and ask her not to reply to it. After that, I’ll just do my best to forget about a relationship where all I did was to make a fool of myself. But I still find myself hoping that, after all this, she won’t think ill of me.

I have just returned from a week-end party at [P] - along with Simon Fraser and Henrietta Scott - to find Dad in an unpleasantly suspicious mood. He gives the impression of trying to communicate to me that it’s his belief that I’m being led astray by a tart. I’ve no means of knowing what manner of stories he may have been told, or where they came from. Or it may possibly be that he’s just discovered - from [F]’s parents perhaps - that it was [X] who sent him that letter, poking fun at his collection of Hitleriana. Anyway he was full of questions as to where I had been. Although I was telling him nothing untrue, he wasn’t satisfied with my answers, and kept on trying to catch me out contradicting myself. But I could see no purpose behind it all - unless he is supposing that I too am responsible for sending him that letter.

I have now returned from a brief stay in London. I was in a panic when I first went round to see [X] in her new flat, since I found that I had left her address at Longleat. I knew that it was in Thurloe Square, but I didn’t know the number. I had visions of going round the square ringing each bell in turn, but decided to ring Mrs [X] instead - from a phone box in the square.

It was the butler who answered, and I asked him for [X]’s address, but he just said that he’d fetch Mrs [X]. Then he returned to say that she would be coming to the phone in a moment. I waited and waited, and still she didn’t come. So I had to ring off. But [X] had been looking out from her window, happened to see me going into the phone box. So she guessed what had happened and came running down.

It remains unexplained, and is some cause for worry, that Mrs [X] wouldn’t come to the phone. I’m afraid it must mean that she disapproves of me. She didn’t want to assist me in obtaining [X]’s address.

That evening she cooked for me in her new flat, but she was furious to find that her fellow lodger had eaten most of the food she’d bought for dinner. There was enough for us however. We had the flat to ourselves that evening, so we were able to go to bed together for a while. And I was eager for it, since [X] now declares that she is ready to let me take her properly. And that was indeed the intention. But now that she is willing, she finds herself inhibited by the pain - which she puts down to the fact that we were needing to use a contraceptive sheath. And worse still, the Durex broke under the strain of all my efforts. There was very little moisture inside, so I hardly think I have put her at risk - even though she was in the fertile part of her cycle. But it meant that, once again, we have had to postpone the great occasion until such a time of the month when she can risk doing it without me wearing anything. It leaves me wondering however. Was she making excuses about the pain, just to put off the evil day?

[X] and I were invited to join a weekend party at Langton Hall - invited by Bobby Spencer’s mother. I enjoyed it, but I have rarely entered such an uncomfortable house, with Spartan living conditions. On the good side we were put into two rooms next to one another, and a long distance from everyone else - which was perfect of course.

[X] was in a bad mood at the start of the weekend, complaining about all and sundry. She had got it into her head that her old school friend Catherine Spencer, Bobby’s sister, was planning to steal me away from her. She was pretty enough, but without the designs on me which [X] attributed to her. It was only after [X] had managed to convince herself that no such threat was intended that her attitude became reasonable - and we were able to enjoy ourselves rather better.

But I found that my own temper was becoming short with her towards the end, causing me to snap quite unnecessarily. The most heated flare up was on the drive back to Wiltshire. She was complaining and I became fed up with it. At one point I was putting my foot down on the accelerator, using the speed of the car as an expression of my anger - but remaining silent. It worked too. She said she’d agree to anything so long as I slowed down - which made me feel such a shit for employing such bullying tactics with her. She can be quite patient with me, and we were quickly reconciled.

I have now once and for all ended my `affair’ with Lita. I have posted that letter to her and I’m already feeling much better about the whole business. It’s a great pity that I behaved so stupidly, but I must now put all that behind me.

I drove up to London from Oxford on Wednesday to see [X]. But I could tell from the start that she was playing it aloof. She claimed that this was just because she was feeling tired. She said that she’d been to a nightclub with a young boy called [K] - a school friend of my cousin Adrian at Eton, I believe. She was quite amusing when describing how he had set about persuading her to accompany her to the nightclub. But she wasn’t laughing at him. In fact she said she had liked him very much indeed. She was even claiming that he had asked her to marry her. It’s absurd that I should start feeling jealous over a harmless nightclub date with a young Etonian, but the fact remains that she is now fending me off, emotionally, setting herself behind this barrier which she has raised.

This barrier is something which she has constructed with some deliberation, and I can’t really discover what’s in her mind - or why she created it. I can’t believe that it has much to do with her encounter with [K] - even if she does want me to suppose that it has. There was a faint clue perhaps in that she tells me how Jinny Beaumont doesn’t think that we’re well suited to one another. (Jinny thinks that I’m too young for her, and that she ought to be looking for someone who is more mature.) Or it may be something else - I don’t know.

We had a long talk about ourselves, and it was all rather depressing. The frightening part is that, if I analyse her remarks, I find that she is just throwing back at me what I’ve said to her previously about my own doubts on the question of our compatibility. But what I may have been expressing as a doubt, she serves back to me with the authority of conviction.

Then she got back on to the subject of all these fortune-tellers whom she consults. Recently she has been to someone called Mr Frost, to whom she has been introduced by her grandmother. (And I daresay that entails the grandmother already having fed him with the family’s doubts concerning my suitability for [X].) In any case it seems that Mr Frost has told [X] a number of things of an unpleasant nature about myself. He said that at present she is going about with a person who is rough with her, and inclined to be a bad influence. The description of being "rough" could be interpreted to mean virtually anything in her own thoughts. But I daresay it got her nodding her affirmation, so that he could venture on with his predictions, after her confidence in him had thus been established. And he told her that she would eventually marry someone of a different description.

[X] also claims that she has been having bad dreams which seem to reflect against myself - something about me taking her round Longleat and showing her headless monsters. She was left with a feeling that if I showed her any others, she would go mad. It’s not healthy that she should be picturing our relationship in this fashion. I’ll need to read some more books on psychology before I know how to interpret such dreams. But her own approach is to claim that she has the vision of a mystic, and that she’s understanding what she perceives as a warning about myself.

She went on to say that she feels unable to cope with the mental strain of our relationship. She says that, after the week-end at Langton Hall, she was a complete wreck for several days. We may be alike in character, but we approach life from completely different angles - so that we constantly find ourselves in opposition to one another concerning matters which are fundamental to the formation of attitude. This, combined with the factor of trying to pretend to others that our relationship isn’t really sexual, is wearing her down into a nervous wreck. She thinks we should see rather less of each other, to enable her nerves to stand it.

I fear inwardly that the crisis may be deeper than she has expressed - that for reasons withheld from me, she has decided that we are never going to marry. She regards this as our fate, and she has no intention of trying to sort out whatever the problems may be. Her attitude is to accept fate as something preordained, and to avoid feeling any misery about it. Well that’s just Mr Frost’s vision of our fate, and I wish to God that I could make her understand that other people must surely have an equally strong vision of our fate being totally different to what he sees.

Or perhaps it’s a matter of Mr Frost being good at telling her what she’s already decided for herself - so that the real issue is to discern what’s been upsetting her. It could be that she’s just trying to tell me, as gently as possible, that we’re not going to marry. But she assures me that she isn’t asking for a total break, and that she isn’t cutting back on her love for me. It’s just that we must cool down on the pace of everything.

What I found the most depressing was that she raised the subject of her love for [M] - a subject which hasn’t seemed to be bothering her since he went to Australia. In fact she has been avowing recently that she has grown to love me more than she ever loved [M]. But it seems that we are now back into the same position we’d reached last year, when she told me that she could never love anyone quite so "passionately" as she had loved him. She doesn’t seem to know her own mind on the issue, and she never remembers the way she has expressed herself previously.

Perhaps I am sensing intuitively (something which I dread) that this is the crucial turning point in our relationship. We’ve reached the peak, and from now on it will be gradually downwards - until we are nothing better than good friends. And I can’t bear the thought of this.

I do see how our attitudes to life are fundamentally opposed - on issues like mysticism versus logic. But that doesn’t alter the fact that, in personality, we are similar. So which is the more important when it comes to compatibility? Is it the attitude, or the personality? Or does there need to be a similarity in both of these spheres?

I see how I am to blame for declining to think of marriage until after I’ve finished with Oxford. But I can’t persuade myself that this was a foolish decision. Nor do I sympathize with her view that she’ll be getting too old for just starting married life by that date. There’s plenty of time for both of us to mature into the people we’ll then remain for the rest of our lives.

If I want to hold on to her, I do see that I’ll have to make some radical changes to my outlook. I must try to remove this feeling she has that I’m an influence for things bad - which could mean that I’ll have to cut back on our sexual activities - or at least until such a time as she feels she can cope with it.

I may also have to curb myself from expounding upon what I think, and to check myself from criticizing her own ideas. That’s going to be quite a problem. But I’ve got to wake up to the fact that her ideas are an essential part of her, so that if I reject them, then she’s going to feel that I’m rejecting her. So it’s a difficult situation.

I’m certainly not going to be able to adopt for myself the mystical ideas which she so much cherishes. But she has got some wrong ideas concerning what it is that I do believe - about God, and such matters. By explaining carefully what I do believe, it could be that she’ll regard my attitude as something more sympathetic than she had previously realized.

I must write to her and get everything sorted out before I see her again - which will probably be next Tuesday. I shall explain how I agree with her about the strain to which we are both subjected, and I’ll offer to try and make it better. I shall then attempt to clarify my views upon the current state of our relationship, while trying to convince her that we are not fated to drift apart. Then I’ll touch upon the subject of my views and beliefs, but leaving those matters for discussion whenever the best opportunity might arise.

After we had talked about all this for quite some time, [X] had to run off for another sitting with Annigoni, who is painting a portrait of her. (That’s the second artist to have asked her to sit for a portrait - the other being Dorothy Head.) We agreed to meet up at 19.15 hrs, but she was half an hour late - and then claimed that she was too tired to accompany me to a cinema. But she cooked me a dinner at her flat, and then I thought I’d better leave - to go back to Caroline’s house.

I felt gradually better over the course of the next morning, after driving back in my car to Oxford. On arriving, there was a lecture by Ryle which I wanted to attend - on the subject of `Freedom of the Will’. It came at exactly the right moment, producing an interesting chain of thought on the problems which relate to my present crisis. I was genuinely interested and intend to go to all his lectures, if possible. I came out of the lecture hall with my mind shaken free from all the depression of the previous night.

I went out to lunch with the [F] sisters and with [H], who at last appears to be taking an interest in women. He was making clumsy passes at[F]'s sister.. Despite all his talents, [H] isn’t much of a conversationalist. So he resorted to a process of serenading [F]'s sister on a squeeze-box, while the rest of us were chatting about this and that. But when [H] started urging [F]'s sister to come up in an aeroplane with him, [F] laid her foot down to say that she couldn’t. A wise veto. [H] might well have landed in Paris - or Moscow, or Dien-Bien-Phu!

Thinking back over this recent crisis, there are times when I think that the frustrations within my sex life at Oxford are quite unbearable - that it would be better to drop my studies and disappear abroad - only to return to this scene after I feel that I am old enough to marry. I suppose it might come to that in the end, but not just yet. For the moment I’m happy enough to remain where I am, continuing with these studies. But I’m not as stable as I need to be. I am subject to vacillations of temperament which are idiotic, but which I cannot ignore. They are an essential part of me. as I now stand. So I have to treat them as important, while I wait for the mature Me to coalesce.

On Tuesday I went up to London to attend a whole series of parties - first to Caroline Poole’s cocktails, then to dinner with Lady Hardwick, and then on to the Northbourne dance. But my trouble was that I couldn’t really get into a party mood - unable to get started. I’ll confine myself to particular comments.

At the dinner I was seated between Amabel York and Caroline Melgund. It was only the second time that I have met Caroline since she married Gibby. We had been quite attracted to each other over the brief period before I went out to Germany, although I didn’t really mind when she wrote to say that she was engaged. I still find her good company, if on the quiet side. Nothing outrageous like [X]! I was able to gather from various snippets of conversation that she and Gibby are now bored with one another. So much for early marriages! But I don’t want to cause any trouble between them. I’m not cut out for matrimonial intrigues.

At the dance I found myself partnering a whole succession of debs, with whom I had nothing that I wished to discuss. In fact our conversations dried up from a lack of sincere effort on either side.

Later on things improved - largely because [X] and I were patching up our relationship. She asked me to give her a lift home, and we had a long talk sitting in the car. If I interpret her rightly, the situation now stands like this. She had come to the conclusion that she didn’t really love me - or at any rate that we’d never be able to get on together. But on reading the letter I sent her, she "realized" that she was in love with me after all, and that she’d never be content to let me drift away from her. So she now wants to continue as if the words she spoke had never been uttered. In fact she was giggling and describing herself as "the prodigal daughter".

All this comes as a considerable relief. But I’d be stupid not to take warning from what should be regarded as a close shave. We came perilously close to the termination point. I must register the fact that I was subjecting her to too much strain - that our relationship still depends too greatly upon sex. I’ve got to leave it to her to set the pace in these matters. And I must try and introduce a greater degree of shared occupational interest, to compensate for the reduced sexual play. It’s important that we should discover whether these shared occupational interests can indeed be created, and whether the relationship can be sustained at that level. And it’s something that we should discover beforewe reach the inflexible commitment of marriage.

We have been enjoying a most glorious fine spell of weather, which has put me in good spirits. Life seems so much brighter under these conditions. I don’t suppose that it will last, but I have the feeling that, at long last, I’ve found my feet at Oxford.

On Tuesday I took Jimmy Skinner for a long cruise round the countryside in my TR 2, with the hood removed. We eventually found ourselves by a signpost for Hatherop, and I was curious to see what [X]’s old school was like. (My sister went there too, of course, but it wasn’t situated at Hatherop then.)

We parked the car just outside the gate and had a look inside. There were several girls playing tennis not far away, who immediately became self-conscious and apt to miss the ball. Then a small group of them came walking by, giggling and preening themselves. Needless to say we gave them a fair amount of encouragement. They all gathered together some distance back, and seemed to be holding a conference. We could hear remarks like: "I don’t dare!" - "I won’t go alone!" - "I’ll go if someone comes with me!"

We then made things easier for them by moving back and sitting in the car - pretending to study a map. When I looked round, I saw heads ducking down behind a hedge - then gradually reappearing. And they stood there giggling, looking distinctly sheepish.

I tried to start a conversation by asking if any of them had been there with [X]. They seemed nervous, but then one of them mumbled that she had. A troubled silence settled over them, and I could sense that something was wrong. So I looked around and found myself face to face with one of their mistresses. This came as a bit of a shock, and I dithered for a moment between a decision to drive off, or to offer some explanation. Opting for the latter, I mumbled something about wanting to show a friend the school where my sister had been a pupil. The mistress said something about us causing a disturbance, and asked us to move on. So meekly we obeyed. Perhaps we’ll feature romantically in their dream fantasies for a while - or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking! The greater likelihood is that I’ve blotted my copybook as far as Hatherop is concerned.

On arriving back at Oxford, we went round to cadge a drink from Dru Montague at Magdalen - but he didn’t offer us one. When he started talking about photographs, I asked him whether he had still got the negatives of the ones he took of Lita when we were in Biarritz. Somewhat reprovingly, he told me that [J] had got them - adding: "Surely you’re not still in love with her?" I’m not sure what he may have been trying to tell me. Could it be that Lita is now engaged to [J]? That might go a long way towards explaining the recent situation. I wonder if Dru knows about the letters I’ve been writing her?

I have just answered a letter from some girl in Sweden called Louise Dubois. Apparently I have been featured in the Swedish newspapers, on the subject of my moving back into Longleat. I’ve always heard that Swedish girls consider that it’s up to them to take the initiative in sexual matters, and that’s fine by me! I only hope that she turns out to possess the traditional Swedish beauty.

On Friday I was invited by [X]’s parents to join their dinner party for the Wignall dance. And Sarah Wignall curiously turned out to be one of the girls who had firmly given me no encouragement whatsoever in the Salle Richelieu at the Sorbonne. Her jaw dropped when she saw me queuing up to be greeted by her, and there was certainly no smile.

I was in a good party mood, and there were plenty of people present whom I already knew - so I enjoyed the evening. So did [X] at the start. She was in fine form, flirting with various men. Nor did I object in the slightest. But I was dancing closely with [X] when I saw Claire Baring (whom I had known in Paris,) and she was grinning as if to say: "Ha! So you’re in love again, I see!" So I grinned back in a manner of saying: "I get the message! Yes!" But [X] noticed and was furious with me - saying that she wasn’t going to stand it if I was going to make eyes at other girls. Naturally I felt put out, and a little angry.

Then [X] said that she was tired and she wanted me to take her home, which distressed me since it was such a good party - something that was confirmed later by all those who stayed on. But she now switched to saying that she wanted me to take her on to a nightclub. I was reluctant to do this, since the transfer of capital has still to be completed. And until then, I find that I am short of ready cash. So I persuaded her that we might just as well sit chatting in my car - without the need to spend anything at all.

I then took the car into a dark alley where we could kiss. But we kept on being disturbed by a horrid little man who came tip-toeing from one of the neighbouring houses, in a pretence that he was doing something - although God knows what. But he was really endeavouring to peer inside the car - possibly in an attempt to identify if one of his own family was the girl being kissed. And [X] kept diving for cover so that he wouldn’t see her face - on the supposition that it might be someone from the press. So after about a quarter of an hour of these persistent antics, I found that my temper was rising; and I was about to get out of the car to confront him, only [X] restrained me. She didn’t want any manner of fuss, which might get picked up by the gossip columns. So I drove to another spot where our kissing went undisturbed.

My resolutions about waiting for [X] to set the pace in our sexual activities were soon abandoned. But this was because [X] complained that a man can’t expect a woman to give him the lead in such matters. She said that it was against a woman’s sexual nature to be so bold. And I suppose that may be true - or contrary to Western culture in any case. But it makes a nonsense of all the good intentions that I had been formulating for our behaviour. I shall have to modify the resolution that I made into something about improved consideration for [X]’s psychology. But it looks as if she’s encouraging me to go on setting the pace as I desire.

I must admit to feeling dubious about certain aspects of [X]’s personality. So I’ll try and list them.

It worries me that [X] is too apt to make scenes. (I’m thinking about how she kicked up a fuss because I smiled back at Claire Baring.) If this kind of thing were to recur constantly within our married life, I would be led one hell of a dance. I am highly strung by nature, and to be picked on like that would quickly drive me up the wall.

A second worry is that (like myself) she may be far too egocentric to facilitate sociable companionship. And when she declares her love for me, it could be that my particular identity isn’t that important for her psychological welfare. My continued presence might be necessary, but merely as a bolster to her pride, and not for any special quality that I might bring to her life.

A third worry is that neither of us really accepts the other for what we are. She was criticizing me for laughing at her mystical views - pointing out that this meant that I was laughing at her. But I could reverse the charge by pointing out that there are things which she doesn’t take seriously enough about myself - my ambitions for example. She tolerates them, but she doesn’t believe in them. And of course, who is to say that her approach is not justified? But it feels like a rejection in that she is not fully able to place her faith in me. I so much need a partner in life who really believes in me.

A fourth worry is that, although I do believe in her capacity to succeed, I harbour some doubts about her capacity for intellectual thought. And that really boils down to the question of intelligence. She never comes to grips with her ideas - never finds satisfactory definition for them. She just waffles along, full of vivacity, but her remarks are vague and impractical. And I’m left uncertain how to judge her intellect.

Then there is a fifth worry concerning why people like Dad should impugn her morals. I’ve gone over this matter before and, within my own judgement, she displays the right degree of adventurous experimentation alongside sufficient reverence for the accepted patterns of behaviour. But Dad doesn’t seem to view her like that. Instead he regards her as some tart who is trying to get her clutches upon Longleat. And he thinks that I’m just blinded by my love for her not to perceive what is obvious to everyone else. Such an opinion irks me greatly. (After all, it’s hardly very flattering to myself!) But it does worry me just faintly that she could have been making a fool of me, more than I’ve ever realized - with [M], or whomever. Is it possible that I don’t know half of what’s been going on?

[X] has stated that she would always prefer it if I discuss all my worries quite openly with her. And candour is an important aspect of my own ideals. But I don’t see how to make a start on discussing issues such as these. It would just give rise to a greater number of anxieties than were laid to rest. So I find myself thwarted, and keeping the worries to myself.

The real trouble is that we have not yet cleared that crisis we had a few weeks ago, when the outlook seemed very bleak. The only solution can be in growing to understand one another better - in learning to tolerate each other’s positions without finding it necessary to alter them. This may not prove possible, but I sincerely hope that it does.

On Tuesday I went up to London for Jill Buckley’s dance. I spent much of the time trying to escape from a girl who was making a big point of informing me that she was an heiress. She was instructing me thus upon her marital worth with an earnest determination to make the best use of this fleeting opportunity to make an appropriate match for herself. The poor girl had no means of knowing just how little I value the prospect of acquiring such additional wealth. I take the line that I’ll always have sufficient in life, so what I’m looking for in any potential partner is beauty and companionship. I hope I haven’t given her an inferiority complex from all my efforts to dodge her company.

On Friday [L] gave a party in Christ Church, to which he had done his level best to invite all the smart set. He really is a complete joke of a man - and perhaps not particularly nice beneath that veneer of suavity....

I re-met someone called [N] - the previous occasion being when she was co-hosting a party with [U]. We danced in the room which was supposed to be set aside for waltzes and reels. But I blew the candles out, so that a nightclub atmosphere then prevailed - and was far more appreciated by all present. I was soon having quite a necking session with [N], in the middle of the floor while dancing.

I then took her on to Long John’s, which is the nearest that Oxford approaches to having a nightclub; then on for a ride in the country, and a walk through woodlands. We were lying on the ground at one point, and I think she was hesitating as to whether it was good sense for her to let me go the whole way - the idea that we had only just met, and that she was letting me go too far and too quickly. I was behaving badly, I suppose. But I wasn’t making her false promises, or anything like that. It could be that her best move would have been to seduce me. But I really don’t know whether the affair might have taken off after that. As it is, I think I’d better stick to [X]!

On Saturday I went to Jimmy Skinner’s party, which then transferred to Raymond Carr’s house. I became somewhat tight, and once again I was behaving badly - dancing far too closely with Joy Gregory who is Jimmy’s girl-friend. It was platonic enough, but I feel quite guilty about it in retrospect. Perhaps I’ll venture a humorous apology to Jimmy when we next run into each other!

On Sunday, Serena D and Caroline P were in Oxford, and they dropped in to see me at teatime - which led to me producing a whole lot of psychological tests for them to perform. Not just intelligence tests, but a lot of others as well. (I must admit that it has gone to my head somewhat that [W] should have pronounced that I have a high IQ.) But I was making a bit of a fool of myself with all this testing, since I didn’t really know how I should reach my conclusions. So I could only proclaim my incompetence, which left them in a state of frustration.

It has occurred to me that [X] and myself ought to visit a psychologist, to get ourselves assessed in all manner of ways. Dad always says that it’s a proof of weakness to consult a psychologist when you’ve nothing special that is wrong with you. But it strikes me as the easiest way for two people to discover if they are likely to be compatible with one another - over the long run. A psychologist could tell us that quite quickly, and it would save us a lot of time - perhaps even persuade us to forget the idea of marriage, if that should be his verdict. We ourselves may be blinded by our love for one another. But the psychologist would be viewing us with all the clarity that is required. If I can persuade [X] to visit one with me, then I shall look further into the possibility.

Something that upsets me is the way that everyone always seems to have heard everything concerning my relationship with [X]. It all leaks out - reports on our emotional crisis up in London reached me in highly exaggerated form, both from Mum (when she was staying with Nan) and from Laurence, who had been chatting with [F]. I suppose it was [F]’s mother, who was Mum’s informant. But Laurence himself is a terrible gossip, and he sets out to tell just about everybody he meets when he thinks that he has something interesting to tell. But I blame [X] too, for not being more self-contained. She has this dreadful urge to share her emotions with her friends, whereas I tend to keep them to myself. I have written to her complaining about all this. I hope I haven’t hurt her feelings.

On Wednesday I went up to London for a cocktail party, and then on to a dance given by Lady Nichols. I didn’t really enjoy either, but I had an amusing dinner with Camilla Crawley. She is worried as to how far she can allow men to go without losing her reputation. She says that, at present, she manages to put men off from the very start - so that nothing in fact gets started. I had to think carefully on what advice I should give, so as to reflect what may really be the current state of the standards for sexual morality which people expect of a girl today. And I suppose it’s true to say that they do still expect that she should remain a virgin. But I told her that she could still have plenty of fun permitting men to think they are going to get everything quite rapidly, only letting them see where the barriers exist when they actually reach them. In other words plenty of flirtation, but still maintain the capacity to say no. (This was not an attempt at personal seduction!)

On Thursday, Laurence K and John L-T appeared in my rooms with [Y] in tow. Then after chatting for a while, the two men went off on separate business of their own, leaving it for me to take [Y] out to dinner. I suspect that this may have been a calculated ploy on their side to encourage me to take a closer look at [Y] - which evokes the idea that they must suppose my relationship with [X] will not endure for very much longer. I feel sure they are wrong about that, but I wasn’t averse to taking a closer look at [Y] !

I do think that I now know her rather better. Of the women around my age, I find conversation with her to be the most interesting. She relates quickly and most personally - if timidly - to the man with whom she is discussing a subject. And there is an evident hunger to extract all the information that she can on such occasions. There may be enormous gaps in her education, and she may have been antagonistic towards the whole process of learning when at school; but she sees the prospect of relationship with a man as a chance to make up for all those former lost opportunities. I found it very easy to talk with her because she was interested in much the same group of subjects as myself, and she was so full of questions. In addition to all that, I find her expression most appealing. Not such a beauty as [X] perhaps, but certainly attractive - rather like a timid fawn.

On the other hand, I somehow feel sorry for the man she eventually marries. There is something immature (or even faulty) in her values; nor do I have confidence that she’ll get such matters sorted out by the process of rationalization, where her thoughts appear to be in much confusion. We did not actually discuss her attitude towards marriage, but I get the impression that she will be ruthless in her conduct, right up to the point of demanding divorce, and that she’ll leave behind an unhappy husband, who will probably remain very much in love with her.

On Friday evening, I went over to [X]’s home for the weekend.

I plunged into a profound depression for most of Saturday. I wanted desperately to return to Oxford just as soon as would be polite for me to do so - although I knew that there was no hope of doing this - whereas she was masking the anxiety behind a facade of exuberance. The whole afternoon was incredibly strained.

It wasn’t until her parents went off to drinks in the evening that matters improved. Then it all happened quite suddenly and, within half a minute, it seemed as if we were closer in spirit than ever before - because neither of us could stand the separateness for a moment longer. The agony in the isolation from each other was just accumulating until it had to collapse.

Sunday was a much happier day all round. We went over to lunch with Fiona’s parents. Her father was there - the one who was supposed to be something quite big in British Intelligence during the war years. [X] says it was a miracle we won the war when old fogies like him were devising our intelligence schemes. But he was a nice old buffer - apt to exclaim "How interesting!" whatever I might be telling him.

On the following Thursday I went up to London for the Brunners’ dance. It was a masked ball, and well organized. I went with my coat back to front, a mask on the back of my head and with my face made up to look like a French waiter at the turn of the century.

I quite enjoyed the whole evening, but it started badly for me when some elderly man (whom I didn’t know, but who appeared to know me) was offensive - implying that I’m a pansy. I was talking to Tatham whom I had known at Eton, and he’d enquired if I had come up from Oxford. Anyway this man turned and started goading me. "Of course he’s at Oxford. Can’t you see? Where else could you wear an effeminate little moustache, lovely long greasy hair...." And he continued itemizing my appearance. I just glared at the man, while Tatham looked embarrassed. The man was assessing whether he could take it further. "Have a gull’s egg!" he suggested - holding one out to me, with an expression that seemed to say: "And stuff it up your arse!" I stood there without saying a word, and the man turned away. So it was all quite satisfactory in some ways. But I don’t understand why I seem to provoke such an aggressive attitude from males. Perhaps it’s just that he’d been drinking too much.

Claire Baring was at the dance, and she does seem just a little keen on me. Anyway I was conscious that she was keeping me to herself on the dance floor. But she is someone who is much in demand, so it wasn’t all that long before one of her admirers came up and whisked her away.

On Friday I took [X] down to the 4th of June celebrations at Eton. She was feeling ill with a touch of flu, but she bore up quite well. The irritating part was that she was eager to run into her new friend, [K] - and eventually managed to! He looked nice enough.

Late on Wednesday evening I drove up to London, giving a lift to [F]'s sister and Bendor, who had been to Christ Church to see the Senior Censor in the hopes of getting his sentence of rustication lifted - but to no avail. I tried to overtake a car in the pouring rain, with visibility nil, and suddenly found myself confronted with a roundabout. As I screamed to a halt, woke up exclaiming: "Never mind! It’s nobody’s fault!" She does have this reputation for being a calming influence, no matter what the crisis.

On Thursday, I went with [X] to see the Trooping of the Colour. There was a wonderful panic when [X] thought we were going to miss it. We had to walk, and she was rushing up to every person we met to ask if we were still walking in the right direction. We always were, and we arrived with about one minute to spare.

On Friday [X] and I went in Vanda’s party to the Luke dance. It was quite fun, but there were some pretty awful people in our dinner party.

On both of these occasions I took [X] back home to bed with me in Caroline’s house - but having to leave at about five in the morning to take her back to the Lansdown Club, where she now resides. (The arrangement with Ann Noad fell through. I suspect that [X] isn’t the easiest of flat-mates!) But in the early hours of the morning, with both of us suffering from a lack of sleep, I found that we were inclined to snap at one another.

I promised to fetch her later in the morning, and drive her back to [P]. But at 10.00 hrs she phoned me to say that her father had rung up to say that he would be collecting her himself. She was crying and seemed genuinely upset. It made me feel awful that I had recently been so sharp with her.

On Saturday, [X] arrived in Oxford, and it was an enjoyable weekend with minimal outbreaks of quarrelling.

On the Sunday we went for a tour round the countryside, and eventually picnicked in a hayfield about twenty miles from Oxford. It was so hot that [X] eventually took off most of her clothes. But when we arrived back, much to our horror, we were confronted by John L-T. who said that he’d seen us in a hayfield, and waved to us. It’s extraordinary that one can travel so far to find a place where we’d be right away from everybody - only to return home to find that we were observed. But from his expression I must assume that we were still fully clothed when he saw us!

On Monday was the Christ Church Commemoration Ball. Enjoyable, apart from the fact that I had some trouble from Raymond Carr. We’ve heard tell that it’s all over between him and [G]. But the net result is that he’s currently on the lecherous prowl once again.

He works in accordance with a method of his own. When he spotted [X], he caught her by the hand and said: "Come and help me in my search for [F]'s sister." I promptly said that we were too busy, but [X] put me in my place by walking off with him. And it does occur to me that she must have given him the eye at sometime or other, for him to have accosted her with such confidence. I think it tickles her vanity to be wooed by a don. I stormed off in a huff to my room - although I realized how it was absurd to be jealous, and cooled off.

I didn’t have long to wait before [X] came looking for me - although I was to hear how Raymond had been making quite a set at her, telling her that he couldn’t understand what she saw in me, and all that kind of thing. It’s irritating, that! I mean he has all the advantage of intellectual prestige, and it’s uncomfortable to know that you are being fired at from above.

We spent the rest of the night in my bed - until the early hours of the morning when I took her back to the Royal Oxford Hotel. The ball was still going strong incidentally.

With the term ended, and only a few days to go before I was due to leave for Spain, there was only one opportunity for [X] to come and see me at Longleat - which was on Sunday. And we spent a thoroughly immoral day together.

Perhaps this is the right moment to review the relationship for what I now hold it to be. I shall be very surprised (after all we’ve gone through together) if we do not finally end up as husband and wife. That’s the way I think of ourselves already. We both regard anyone who tries to come between us as an intruder - or worse.

What worries me is that her idealised image of what she would like to see in me is perhaps wide of the mark, in relation to what I really am. She would like to think that I am the understanding lover, constant in my fidelity and ever dependable. But I see plenty of potential disillusionment in those directions. Or it could be that she does see me as I am, but hopes that I’ll take note of this alternative image (which exists only in her mind’s eye) as some manner of inspiration for me. Her attempts to get me to say to her the loving remarks that she wants to hear on my lips are an indication of this. But she’s living in a dream world sublimated from reality; and I don’t feel that I should try to play any part in it.

I worry about [X]’s psychological fragility. I recognize how there are constantly brutal words on the tip of my tongue, but I have to hold them back for fear of hurting her. I know that it will be my fault if our relationship comes to an end - because I have said something which is too harsh for her. But I really should be able to bridle myself as much as is necessary to preserve her frail identity. I believe that I can make a success of it. Anyway I hope so.

I do not hold too rosy a picture of what marriage to [X] will be like. I see it as a state fraught with problems - although it’s always possible that the arrival of children on the scene might alter all that. But the problems will be less if she can learn to see me as I really am. Even if it means opening her eyes to the fact that I’m a lot nastier than she idealizes me as being, we’ve got to start out with a realistic vision of ourselves.

My last night in England was spent at the Dunraven dance at Petworth - accompanying [X] and her parents. But it was a big mistake that I went. And I only did so because of the confusion in having to switch my booking for this trip to Spain, so that I had to remain in London anyway until that date. But it was a strained evening for the very reason that it was a prolongation of our togetherness beyond the point that we’d been anticipating. And it was somehow that much more of a problem to keep ourselves geared up to seeing it through to the end - or until I finally caught the train for Spain. No, we certainly didn’t enjoy ourselves.

Another problem was in not having our own car. We were driven down to Petworth with [X]’s parents, and then on the way back we had to cadge a lift from Douglas Wilson and Idina. Not that this pleased them in any way at all, for we were just intruding upon their privacy. And they kept us hanging around for ages, probably in the hope that we’d find a lift with someone else. But we didn’t. So there were sour faces all the way back to London.

There was also a heated exchange between [X] and myself, when I commented that one of her remarks was "bitchy" - which annoyed her greatly - although we patched it up as best we could in these too public circumstances. And even after we had been deposited at the Landsdowne Club, to say our final farewell in the early hours of the morning, there was the hall porter and the charwomen watching us. (Or we imagined that they were watching us, even if they weren’t.) So it managed to be an unsatisfactory, frustrating, and faintly quarrelsome parting.

[X] tried to make it better by phoning me at Caroline’s house early next morning, before I went to catch the train. But she made the call so early that I was in fact still asleep, and far from appreciative that she had called. It’s a pity it had to be like that. I think it made both of us feel unhappy.