The awful part is that [V]'s refusal made me feel peeved, and I promptly became irritable with her. When she enquired which other of my girlfriends I may have brought back to Eaton Terrace, and then taken up to bed with me, I told her it had only been [X] and [Y]. But this was evidently too many for her, in that I could see her expression change - which made me fall silent as well. And she interpreted this as meaning that I was brooding over these others, which was unfair. I mean she shouldn't have asked that question, if she was going to get upset over my reply. And in that she was now declining to let me even kiss her, I felt irked - whereupon she announced that she was leaving.

So I drove her angrily to Waterloo station. On arriving there, I saw that she was sitting very still - apparently hoping that we might have a friendly chat. But I was in no such mood, and told her curtly that she'd better go. Her face crumpled slightly, and she ran off crying, which took me by surprise. I remained there for several minutes, wondering what I should do about it, and feeling increasingly badly about my own behaviour in that I'd been unnecessarily sharp with her. And I finally decided that I'd better go and try to find her. So I bought myself a platform ticket, and walked the whole length of the Wimbledon train, peering in at all the windows, without managing to find where she'd hidden herself. So I left.

Next morning Monday, I did manage to get through to her by phone, and I offered her an apology for my behaviour, which was promptly accepted. In fact she was treating it as if nothing serious had occurred, and she sounded quite happy about everything. So I invited her to come out for lunch, and arranged to take her to a play that evening - before having to go on to a debutante dance. (She laughs at me for still wanting to go to such things.) This time everything went happily.

I began the first evening, Monday, by taking [V] to see a musical - 'The Boy Friend' - the one Uncle Tony declined to produce, putting all his money instead into that disastrous Priestley play. It made me feel quite guilty to find it so enjoyable. And it's such an evident success that he'd have been a rich man by now, if he'd backed it.

After the play, [V] was meeting up with her eldest sister, Susan. It's the second one, Anna, who lives in Wimbledon; but this was the first occasion that I've had a chance to meet either of them. She seemed pleasant enough, but not as good-looking as [V]. Well she had nice eyes - sloping downwards like almonds, and quite large. But I still prefer the looks of the youngest sister. The odd part is that she herself regards herself as being less beautiful than this sister.

I left the two of them together, and went on to the Kemsleys' dance, where I had quite a good time.... I remet Clarissa Chaplin, whom I didn't recognize immediately. In fact she has turned into someone most attractive. But I finished up the evening with Penny d'Erlanger, whom I took on to the Millroy. I am not quite clear in my own mind as yet, whether I really like her. There is a streak of hardness in her, while at the same time she seems unsure of herself. I hardly think that we could ever become that close, in a sense of really understanding one another. But I do like her looks, and might welcome the opportunity to go to bed with her, if that were on offer - and if it weren't for [V] of course.

She did make a few remarks (while we were in the nightclub) about thinking that the right place for free love was after, rather than before the marriage had taken place - which I should perhaps regard as a case of giving me fair warning of how she would behave. And it didn't give me much hope for a taste of such 'free love' on that particular evening. In point of fact I didn't even kiss her when I was bidding her good night - a measure of self-discipline!

It is something to note that, despite Francis and his sister having furnished Lady Nicholls with a long list of all their friends from Oxford to be invited to this dance, [V] was not included. It is a sad fact that my friends do not accept her as coming from the same social fold as themselves - notwithstanding the fact that [V]'s mother was a Kindersley, which should virtually make her eligible from that fact alone. But it seems that somehow or other, her children were regarded (or regarded themselves might be more accurate) as coming from a different social group - which is to say from something other than the world of debutante dances.

I do indeed find myself much in two minds as to whether I'd like to repair my relationship with [Y]. And the absurd part is that it should matter to me whether she is still a virgin. The thought keeps creeping back into my mind that it's quite likely for her to have given herself to someone or other, since the time when I was in any position to know anything about the likelihood of such an event. But I know that I'd prefer not to see her again, if she has indeed lost that virginity. I say this while realizing just how absurd such a criterion for still wanting her must seem. I could rid her from my mind so easily if I could only convince myself that it was so. On the other hand, for all I know, she might have been keeping herself for me; and she may be designing right at this moment that we should remeet at Littledene. But even if she's still a virgin at this given point in time, the chances are much against her remaining one for very long.

A great deal in my life depends upon how fortune deals the cards for this weekend. I mean, if I do discover that [Y] is to be there, then there is quite a chance that we'll get back together again - because there really is such an unresolved situation between the two of us. But if she isn't there at all, then I don't suppose that our paths will recross before I move to Paris, to take up my studies as a painter once again. (I am planning this move from the beginning of October.) The opportunities for a reconciliation after that point in time will be much reduced, if they happen at all. Indeed, it wouldn't surprise me in the least to find that she was married by the time that I return from Paris. So I regard this coming weekend as the final chance for us - if indeed anyone is making such an effort to bring us together again. I can only wait and see.

I arrived down at Littledene on the Friday evening. The other guests were Ian R, Mark Dent-Brocklehurst, Adrian Swire, Patrick Beresford, Thomas Dunne, Diana Herbert, Sheila Maxwell and the Crawley sisters of course.... There was a most enjoyable ball at Eridge Castle, where I spent much of the evening dancing with Penny d'Erlanger. She is the only deb from this year (besides Alice Jolliffe) who gives me the slightest feeling that they still regard me as eligible. The rest of them seem to have been warned off me - by whomever, and for whatever reason gets whispered around. But I have my doubts that I'll ever make any real headway with either of these girls.

What she had to say amounted to this. She felt that she had been treating me badly over the past month, but she couldn't help it since she found herself in a bit of an attitude dilemma - realizing how I didn't really accept her as she was, which is to say having had the degree of experience which has fallen to her lot. But this was a realization which made her wish to retain her independence from me - a matter of keeping her own individualism intact. So she doesn't want to have sex with me when feeling like that. She sees how this leads her to blow hot and cold, in a manner that confuses me as to where I stand in her affections. She didn't want our relationship to end, but she wants to know how I view these matters myself. And in particular, she wanted to know if I wish to go on seeing her if she does not permit me to make love to her (on each and every occasion, that is to say.) For she wanted to make it clear to me that she feels unable to give herself, sexually, when sensitive to such thoughts within my mind.

To start with I was taking the line that we could continue with the relationship, as we currently found it - notwithstanding all the frustrations. But as the afternoon wore on, with it becoming increasingly evident where the boundaries for restraint have been drawn, the degree of frustration began to bother me. In fact I was becoming irritable. It made me see just how quickly the relationship is liable to deteriorate if the sexual element is to be removed. So I eventually told her that it might be best, after all, if we agreed not to see any more of each other.

In some ways it was silly of me to be taking this line. With the decision already taken for me to go to live in Paris from the beginning of October, I should be gearing myself for any such emotional disruption within my life to coincide with that date. [V] was saying that she would prefer it if we could continue seeing one another just occasionally. I think we may both have been probing to discover just how much sway we might hold over the other, which is a silly game I suppose. I was saying that I'd agree to go on seeing her, provided that they were occasions when any love-making would be out of the question due to it being impractical. But that wasn't really the thought in my mind. I was just trying to discover a position where it might seem as if the restraint was coming from myself, instead of from her.

We were both edging towards a complete break, without actually wishing to cross that line. I told her how we ought not to meet too frequently. She then suggested a trial separation, after a period of which we could remeet and declare how we felt. She doesn't quite know, as yet, what she really thinks of me, but a period of separation (she thinks) might assist her in sorting out these matters in her head. But I don't like all this talk about trial separations. No decisions about our lives are ever irrevocable - apart from suicide, I suppose. So I can see little point in putting ourselves in the relationship's death cell just to contemplate that event. If the rupture decision is finally to be taken, then I'd prefer to start getting acclimatized to that situation as best I can - with an instant new love affair as perhaps the wisest remedy.

At this given moment in time, I simply don't know whether our affair should now be regarded as something already finished, or whether it is but the end of the first chapter. In any case I am left with the feeling that the time has passed all too quickly. It has been four months (almost to the day) since I first went up and spoke to her. Because of her, I rate April and May as two of the happiest months I have ever spent. If only things had been a fraction different, there might have been a beautifully happy ending to it all. I might put it all down to my immaturity that I have been unable to surmount that hurdle of accepting her former lovers, as part of a life which is well worthy of respect. But whatever the reason might be, I do have that problem. This is what lies at the root of all our current problems, and unless I change my attitude, I cannot see how there will ever be a happy ending. But I should stress that it's not impossible that I shall find such a path for my personal evolution. So the happy ending may yet be on the cards!

Of course I'm not feeling happy about the situation in which we find ourselves, but it isn't exactly one of sorrow. I regard this outcome as the inevitable conclusion to this particular chapter in our lives, without prejudicing my viewpoint on how we might each progress from here. I do firmly believe that I'll always have the greatest of respect for [V], and that I'll remain friendly with her - no matter what happens. Nor will it surprise me in the least if we remain occasional lovers. But I do not think it likely that she will ever be much more than that. I am getting it into my head that she's not mine, nor ever will be.

There are times when I am feeling so emotional about the whole subject, that I manage to convince myself that I am embarking upon a work that will be acknowledged as genius. But I know how I've got to shed my immaturity before I can really take wing. And that leaves me wondering whether I'm ready for this task of writing a novel. But it would be therapeutic for me, as well as keeping me busy. By writing about [V], and perhaps even reviling her, I may at last succeed in shedding such thoughts - discarding my immaturity as a butterfly sheds its chrysalis. Then, if I can truly manage to prove my worth as a novelist, I'll have the self-confidence and self-esteem to overcome my vulnerability to male rivalry, which gives rise to my anxiety concerning her memory of former loves. With that degree of success behind me, I might regard myself as the equal of any man she may ever have known. And I'd be able to discuss these matters with her as if we were at last upon an equal footing.

It's awful how I get thrown by such nuances of uncertainty. The mention of `others' could well mean lovers. Or could she really have been meaning that their love-making (such as it was) might be discounted, in that it had never amounted to anything at all? The absence of real precision in communication creates such an abundance of doubt. I find myself more vulnerable to doubt than I do to established fact - because I am offering myself the worst possible explanations all round. In contrast to this, with a factual presentation of whatever may have happened, the situation is then known - for whatever its disruptive value might be.

There was another instance which I should have mentioned. While we were sitting in my room at Folly Bridge, Mark Tennant dropped in to ask if I knew where the others might be. And when he had gone, [V] commented that he was a friend "of your [Y]" - as she she chooses to phrase it. Since she appeared to be insinuating that they might be closer than I appeared to realize, I declared that Mark was homosexual - to which she retorted that he didn't appear to be, when she'd seen them dancing together at a commem-ball.

At the time I just shrugged my shoulders, but it's given me some food for thought since then. I still think she must have got it wrong in suggesting that Mark could have been behaving amorously with [Y]. But then it struck me that there is quite a resemblance between Mark Tennant and Aldred Drummond - about whom there have indeed been some stories circulating concerning the manner in which [Y] led him on at the Magdalen Commem-ball. But the point for me to notice here, (which only struck me later,) was how [V] had declined to accompany me to that ball, pleading that she was too tired. In fact she had already retired to bed - unless that was just an act. But in any case I had just followed suit, returning home to Folly Bridge (and bed). She was now giving me reason to suspect however, that she may have gone to it after all - with someone else, just as soon as I'd departed from her room.

Then there was another point which I find hurtful. When we parted - at about 16.00 hrs on Tuesday - she declared that she would be leaving next morning to stay with her grandmother. But on the Wednesday evening I happened to run into Nikita L-R, who told me that he had seen [V] at the Randolph Hotel just a little while previously. I didn't like to question him further, in that [V] has indicated previously that Nikita might be acquainted with that admirer she never saw fit to identify. So I had the feeling that, if I were to ask questions, I might get hurt. But if his information was correct, then it leaves me wondering why she didn't see fit to tell me that she'd be staying on in Oxford for a few days. The possibility that she might have been there with this admirer (lover?) makes me feel most uncomfortable. But the situation of not knowing makes me feel even worse. And I do hate the idea that Nikita might be sniggering at the way [V] could be cuckolding me.

This morning Friday, an estate lorry came up from Longleat to collect all my belongings. My room at Folly Bridge now seems strangely empty.

Tomorrow Saturday, I'm off for another weekend party - to stay with Sarah (Crawley) and her husband Ian Henderson. It will be wonderful if I manage to discover some new romantic interest while I am there.

On Saturday evening we all went over to a dance at Sudley Castle in Gloucestershire - given by Mark Dent-Brocklehurst's parents. [Y] was there, and once again I must admit to feeling a longing that I should just be able to walk up to her, as if nothing at all had gone wrong in our relationship. I would dearly like to make things up with her, but I simply didn't feel that I could do this. It would have been unfair on myself, and unfair upon both [V] and [Y]. Nor can I envisage that a suitable pretext for doing so will ever in fact arise. And as a consequence of this, I began feeling progressively miserable as the evening wore on. It's all so stupid when I come to think about it. Only a slight twist in the direction of our paths, and we might well have ended up as a happily married couple. Or that's what I sometimes tell myself. Then at other times I perceive that we were never well suited to one another - not at the real heart of the matter.

On Monday evening I drove up from Longleat to Maidenhead, to attend Penny d'Erlanger's dance. It was a good one, and different from many another in that it was being held at the Cafe de Paris, right down on the waterfront - with rides in the electric canoes as part of the entertainment.

I was seated at Penny's own table for dinner, on her left, with the Duke of Kent on her right. So it might be said that I was being given full honour. Penny is attractive all right, and I find her easy to converse with, but I still have my doubts about the relationship really taking off. I think that at heart she's a conventional girl, within a family that stands quite close to the heart of established society in Britain. Her father Sir Gerald d'Erlanger is the head of one of our big airlines, and I can hardly see him taking kindly to the idea of his one and only daughter living in sin with anyone. So I fail to see how we could ever really get started. But we'll have to see about that of course.

I came very near to blotting my copybook in a very bad manner at this dance. I was standing by the waterfront in a group of young men which included Richard Bingham, when a canoe with some elderly folk in it was approaching the landing raft. Richard and a couple of others were then sufficiently ill-mannered to bombard the canoe with bread rolls - not actually scoring any direct hits, but causing the occupants of the canoe some anxiety, I suppose. What they had neglected to perceive however, was that one of these occupants was Sir Gerald himself. And the closer he came to land, the more they could read the fury in his expression - to such a degree that they began to shift nervously, and eventually ran back into the hotel.

Now I hadn't myself taken any part in this bombardment of the canoe, but I was somehow made to look guilty by association, from the fact that I'd been standing there with the culprits. I didn't actually take flight like the others, but I felt distinctly nervous as Sir Gerald came striding up the path to where I had ambled. He gave me a fierce look, but passed me by in pursuit of the others. And rumour has it that they were promptly ejected from the party, once he had found them. I don't suppose that this episode is going to promote my chances of getting anywhere with Penny, but I can't say that this is likely to discourage me in itself.

After the dance, I drove to Folly Bridge for the night, and then back to Longleat this morning - which is Tuesday.

I am of course endeavouring to come to grips with all the problems that have arisen in our relationship - so to that extent she really ought to read it. On the other hand I find myself wondering if it is worth all the hassle and embarrassment in drawing her attention to the full nature of my anxieties, unless there is real hope that this might sort them out for us. But of course, it could just make the situation worse. So I am postponing the decision on whether I shall show the novel to her.

What I'm hoping is that she'll consent to give our relationship a real test, in the light of living together as if we were man and wife. We should grind our way through that experience, just to discover how much cohesion might really exist between the two of us, no matter how great the trials and tribulations of the daily routine. Then there is the other matter of finding the means to force out into the open my inner resentment about her greater experience than myself in sexual relationships. It's got to be out there in the open before we can discuss it all. She has got to be able to speak to me freely about all such detail in her life, in a manner that does not leave me supposing that there might still be events which she has chosen to keep concealed.

I'm afraid that is still not quite the full measure of the problem. I can't see there being any real future for our relationship unless [V] manages to perceive reason to accept me as her intellectual equal. I do admire her as an intelligent girl, with an abundant capacity to empathise with the problems of others. But I do not think that she has worked out for herself any basis for respecting my intellect, or for believing in my capacity to succeed. And it discourages me to feel that I need to contend with such disregard. It would be wonderful to feel that I could count on such esteem from my girlfriend. But of course I cannot demand it, as if by right. If she cannot offer it to me spontaneously, then it is a sad case of us not being suited to one another. For the disrespect would continue to surface, until it started to undermine my own faith in myself - so the whole relationship would become unhealthy for me.

The solution of course is that I should prove my intellectual excellence to her. And for this reason, perhaps more than any other, it is important that I obtain a good degree. But having said this, how can I possibly better (or even match) [J]'s excellence in that field? She may regard my efforts with commiseration perhaps, but she knows from the start that I'm not going to excel as he excelled. And I really do detest this sense that we are to be stood juxtaposed in her mind, for intellectual comparison. It makes me wonder whether I should throw in the sponge before the comparison is even made. But that would brand me as a quitter - which is something totally alien to my personality.

Or even if I do obtain a bad degree, there is still the possibility that I might snatch acclaim of another kind in the publication of my novel. [V] would be impressed all right by that achievement - even if she did have a children's novel of her own published years back. But this would be an adults' novel, and I feel sure that she acknowledges the difference. I haven't even completed it however, so I cannot set much store upon this possibility. It is a pretty desperate situation all round, and I'm by no means confident just how well I'll survive the ordeal of these next few weeks.

On arriving at Folly Bridge on Monday evening - with my Viva set for the following day - I had been hoping that I might find a note from [V] waiting for me. But there was none....

After the Viva on Tuesday, I went to see a film - hoping that my general depression would subside. But of course it didn't, and I made my way back to Folly Bridge to find that [V] had dropped by because there was a note waiting for me. She had left it a bit late, I noted, since I might easily have chosen to return to Longleat right away, to be notified of the results later. But I suppose she may have been furnishing me with the possibility of doing just this, if it should so happen that I didn't want to see her. That wasn't the case however. So I drove to St Anne's, and enquired what her new address might be - which was 8 St Margaret's Road. I went there, but she was out. On my way home however, I ran into her, discovering that she had just been back to visit me again. So she now agreed to come back home with me.

There wasn't much joy in this encounter. We sat talking for a while, and she was quite happy that I should kiss her. But she wasn't going to let it go any further than that. She had returned to that theme about it being necessary for me to accept her as a person, before we develop any further sexually. She wasn't even going to undress. And there was something so decisive about her attitude that I knew I wasn't going to budge her from it. She's a determined young woman in that respect. When I suggested that she might like to come and stay with me at Longleat, the idea did seem to appeal to her. But when I thought of all the frustration that she might cause me, I became unsure that I really wanted her to come. I knew how irritable I might become under those circumstances. So after inviting her, I found myself discouraging her from coming. And I felt most depressed.

A little while later she left, saying that she had to join some friends who were going to a film. I asked her if she would be coming back, and she said that she might later that evening. But I knew that she wouldn't. She never does when she offers an alternative rendez-vous for the following day. And this was for her to come with me when the results for the PPE Schools get posted, officially on the bill-board.

She in fact turned up somewhat late on Wednesday morning, so the rush to take a look at the results had subsided by the time we arrived. [V] reads fast, so that I knew how she would have registered how I'd done several seconds before myself. And I had in fact sensed from her silence that a disappointment was in store for me, before I even found my own name. Then my heart sank when I saw that they had given me a Third....

[V] realized how I was now sinking into a grim depression, but there was nothing she could very well say to alleviate my dismay. Finally she was advising me to drive straight back home to Longleat - despite the fact that this might be the very last that I see of her. We said a strained good-bye in the PPE reading room, where she had to do some work, and where I'd first spoken to her of course. There seemed so very much that I now wanted to tell her, but it was clear that she didn't wish to hear any of it. Stretching out a farewell can be disagreeable, I suppose. In the end, I just got up and left - driving home to Longleat shortly after that.

I am feeling in a dreadful state, now that I've had all the time I might want to reflect upon my exam results - rather like someone who is out on the moors when night is closing in. There is an urgency that I should find myself a shelter, in terms of success of some kind, before the grim reality of my intellectual incompetence takes hold. But with no such prospect of success on the horizon, I find myself looking round for shelter in more human form - namely within my relationship with [V].

I realize how my behaviour in this respect might be construed as vacillating, and I am losing dignity by going back on my former resolution not to approach her unless she shows herself more ready to resume sexual intercourse with me. But I am capitulating to her on that score. I need her psychological support in this hour of crisis, and I am unashamedly asking for it. I have written her a letter, almost pleading with her to come and stay with me at Longleat. And I really don't know if my ignominy will sink even deeper than that. I mean, I do perceive how a marriage proposal might well transform my chances, as far as [V] is concerned. But is it really in my best interests to think in terms of marriage, to anyone at all? I am still hoping that I'll find the strength to refrain from that. But I can no longer be quite so confident as I may formerly have been, that I won't find myself making that measure of concession to her. I need to have someone who is capable of understanding me at my side. And it could be that I should look no further than [V]. But if I do take that step, it really will mean that I have capitulated to her, which would hardly serve to fortify my self-esteem.

In the meantime I have thrown myself fanatically into the task of getting the first draft of `The Lost Ideal' completed before she is due to arrive. In fact I may already have shaped it to the point where I can take it no further, until I have managed to evolve my own personality into something rather different. I have managed to insert the way I currently think into this novel, with all my conflicting values seething within the minds of the characters I have created. But I do realize how there is still much to add, once I have resolved those issues within my own mind. So I do regard this a being nothing more than the first draft of a novel whose ultimate shape might yet turn out to be very different.

That is where [V] might be of enormous assistance to me. She knows so much about the subject that has been tormenting me, and she will be able to judge if I am capturing it in the most apt manner for literary expression - so long as she can take it, of course. I have written most cruelly about the girl in the novel, wherever it is necessary to convey the torment in the boy's heart. It would enfeeble the book's entire content if I were to omit such outbursts, and I feel sure that she is capable of understanding this.

But of course, [V] has yet to accept my invitation, and it's always possible that she might decline to come. I am counting so much upon her acceptance, that I haven't given any thought at all to the possibility of her saying no. That is a weakness in itself. I should be prepared for all possible eventualities.

Dominic was beginning to dislike his meetings with other people. Among all his friends, the biggest nuisance was Sylvester who was continually coming downstairs in an attempt to re-establish his former claim upon their friendship. This was extremely inconvenient at times, for he never offered to leave of his own accord - not even when Celia arrived. Therefore Dominic had told him curtly one day when they were alone that his presence was unwanted. Sylvester had become very angry.

"You're quite preposterous," he had exclaimed. "You don't seem to realize what a fool you're making of yourself over this girl. Everyone seems to know about her. She's been to bed with practically every man at Oxford. Now she picks upon you because you're the only one who's gullible enough to give her any serious attention."

After this outburst Dominic wasn't on speaking terms with Sylvester. He minded intensely that people should be thinking about Celia in this way, and what made the worry much worse was the uncertainty whether his own judgement was correct. He was intensely jealous of all the amorous memories she secreted in her heart; and whenever he was in John's presence, he felt an instinctive odium, which suppressed all desire for friendship. There was the constant fear that her affair with John might still be smouldering beneath the surface crust of a mere friendship, for no one was in a position to judge the strength of the influence he now exerted on her. Perhaps there were loyalties as much alive as when they first were forged. It was certain that she never spoke about her feelings for him, which might well be evidence of their intensity. John seemed to cast a shadow, ominous and undefined, upon the daylight patterns on the path. If their ties were truly broken, then all forms of relationship should be allowed to peter out - even a tepid friendship being too great a reminder of the state of things before. It was sufficient to rekindle the flames of memory, which alone could illuminate those moments when she had branded herself as a concubine from someone else's bed. And there was no certainty that such memories could ever be laid to rest.

In a strange way, Celia had grown to stand for all that Dominic hated most. With each succeeding day, he was increasingly able to sense the manner in which John's thought had permeated her mind. He noticed it frequently now, whenever she was expressing her opinions. When they were uttered by John himself, Dominic had never even paused to reflect upon such matters; yet coming from Celia's lips, they were a secret source of provocation. He was unable to feel that there was any portion of her mind with which a virgin contact could be made. It was all tainted with the shade of another man's personality, for it seemed as if she had unconsciously incorporated John's outlook within her own. All his respect for her was forfeit because he began to regard her as second-hand, and therefore cheap. She was like a dish that had been tasted by some other tongue, and yet discarded as being unsuitable for the wedding feast.

The will to blend himself into a mutually created personality had by now been extinguished. It was impossible to conceive that their relationship had ever been something that was strictly personal, for it had been public from the very start. Her mind bore all the traces of a sexual domination that was foreign to his own; nor was he confident that the present relationship was held to be something which was more important, in her own esteem, than that which was past. There was no field in which a real intimacy could be established for, in all fields, he was vulnerable to the darts of competition.

No longer was he confident that he could read the thoughts within her eyes. At times he suspected there were thoughts which gave love's laurels to her former loves. Perhaps there was even regret at former pleasures unattained. When he fondled her, kissing and caressing, did she feel those other lips, or dream those other hands caressed? When he whispered words of love, were they his or other arms she had in mind? Those hell-hounds of comparison were always at his heels.

Then the virulence of the poison increased on the emergence of a new factor, for his imagination began to create doubts where none had been before. He began to wonder about the extent to which she had been prepared to surrender her body for sexual usage. It seemed quite possible that she might neglect to mention any such episodes, supposing them to be unnecessary detail. He tried to recall the names which had dropped from her lips - names whose significance he might well have underrated at the time.

The more he thought about it, the more plausible these doubts became. She would have nothing to lose after the first surrender, and there must have been plenty of men who had propositioned her, half in jest, upon an idle whim of fancy. It wasn't in her interest to bring to light such half forgotten memories. Perhaps, if he were to allow the knots of wedlock to be tied, on some foreign beach in many years to come he would see her confronted by a stranger's sneer, and the hideous truth would gradually emerge.

Perhaps a refusal had never been heard to tremble on her lips. When she surrendered for the first time, perhaps there wasn't the slightest trace of love within her heart. Perhaps it was a mere experiment in sordid sensuality. Perhaps the man rose from her bed despising her for her lack of any genuine resistance. And perhaps all the others to whom she had given herself, went boasting of their success around the taverns of the town. He was tortured to know how many loveless nights she had spent within a lover's arms. Did loveless love become the natural culmination to the day's routine? Perhaps there never was a man who asked her, as a friend, and was met with a refusal; but was it twenty, or a hundred, who had claimed the kisses which they knew (on asking) they would get? Perhaps these favours had been dispensed with such a levity that their traces had become dimmed within her memory. Perhaps she looked upon himself as nothing more than the most recent in that long line of experiments in sensuality. And perhaps those who had known her favours in the past, merely nudged each other with a smile and commented upon her latest fashion.

Imagination had become a monster at creation, and the poisoned thoughts were spreading in his brain until they seemed to have the weight of certainty upon their side. Occasionally she could mention someone's name - just a casual reference within its natural setting, and formerly such names would have passed his hearing by. Now however, an invisible hand reached out and snatched them back to his ear, for every name that she mentioned might conceal the identity of a past lover - a lover whose secrets she saw fit to keep locked away in her private thoughts. A thousand names, without faces, jostled for priority within his fears. At other times, when they were walking in the street, a man would stop and greet her like a long lost friend. These were faces without names - faces which may have known the touch of her caress. He juggled names and faces in his mind, vainly striving to attach the most feared faces to the least feared names.

He wanted every item of her love life placed before him in array - every indiscretion lying half forgotten in her past. There could never be sufficient detail, shamefully revealed, to satisfy the craving which he now felt. He wanted to hear the names of a thousand lovers torturing his ears. He must hear the words with which they wooed her, and the phrases with which she replied, the methods of their courting, the reasons for their parting, and the sorrows which came hounding in pursuit. Then he would have something substantial on which to feed his scorn.

It was the kind of scorn that would lash out upon the whole of womanhood. There was no place in life for romanticized ideals. Sex was now a free-for-all in the fashion that womanhood intended. Conceived in squalor, man must in squalor breed, procreating children amid the semen of a dozen fornicating crutches. This was the mill that he must tread perpetually - the mill of lust and cuckoldry. This was the decree of womanhood, and he, the mute male, must learn to tolerate their standards. for toleration was the fruit of impotence.

He would have liked to brand a vengeance upon them all by the squalor of his own licentiousness. By offering passion to street corner tarts, and pouring honeyed words into the ears of dance-hall sluts, he would debase the thought of womanhood within his mind. Forcing lust into his heart, he would cast himself into the toils of love. They all would suffer the slander of his kiss, nor would any escape the degrading clutch of his embrace. And what was more, pleasure would be titillated in their hearts at all these acts of mutual degradation. Womanhood was nothing more than a crucible of sensuality and, as such, they could be reviled.

It began to feel like ages waiting in vain for [V] to send an answer to my invitation, and it made me appreciate just how important she has become to me. Within the present disarray to the forces which I had been marshalling to carry me through this task of living, I see [V] as someone very much in control of herself - a pillar of strength, even if she does lack self-confidence in certain areas. And I would dearly like to incorporate that strength within the forces on my side, as I continue to struggle through life's journey.

While perceiving that I need [V] however, I'm still unable to bring myself to the point of accepting that I should pair myself with a girl who has a wider (and more profound) sexual experience than my own. It goes against the grain of all that I have ever learnt to expect about the male role in life - that I should be reduced to following behind my woman's superior knowledge of the subject. That might be all very well for a particular stage in my life, but I should anticipate that I'll evolve beyond that point and eventually discover for myself a relationship where I can envisage myself, and be envisaged as the front runner - the pace setter. So this leaves me with ambivalent attitudes towards [V]. I know that she is good for me in the short run; but in the longer perspective I am less sure, supposing perhaps that her value to me might diminish, after I finally manage to get my own act together. In other words, if it comes to marriage, I can only foresee divorce - which isn't precisely an encouraging situation.

[V]'s neglect to answer my invitation filled me with perplexity, because I was unable to discern what might be going on in her mind. Eventually (on Thursday) I could stand it no more, and telephoned her - finding her at home. She said she'd been away in Devon. (I wondered if it was with some other man.) I asked her if she wanted to come and stay. She hesitated and said that she could come on Saturday, but that she didn't want to hurt me. She said that she'd post a letter to me which she has already written, and then it would be up to me to decide. And I agreed to await the letter before ringing her back again.

Her letter should have reached me on Friday morning, but there was still no sign of it. So I reverted to telephoning her - three times on Friday evening, and once this morning, Saturday. They were personal calls, and I could hear some lady enquiring where the calls were coming from. Then after a silence, she would return to say that Miss [V] was not available. But I was convinced that she was really at home, and just refusing to come to the phone - probably because she had decided not to send that letter after all, intending to let our relationship peter out from the desiccation of all communication. This was driving me frantic, and I was in a bad way by the time I received my fourth rebuttal on the Saturday morning. Shortly after this however, she rang back of her own accord, to say that if I wanted it, she'd come and stay (for a weekend at any rate), to arrive this very afternoon. And that's how the matter stands.

I told her how I hadn't received her letter, to which she replied that she hadn't posted it. I didn't feel that a telephone was the best means of finding out what might be going on in her mind, so I left it at that. But all the signs portend that I am letting myself in for a miserable weekend. Despite such understanding however, the news that she is coming has filled me with elation. I rushed off and bought a whole lot of things that she fancies - like chocolates galore. She will be arriving within the hour, and I know how much depends upon this visit. And I know how miserable I'll be feeling once again, if everything goes wrong.

Two and a half weeks have elapsed since my last entry in this journal. I was feeling far too depressed about my life for most of that time, so I simply didn't want to write about it. But I'm gradually recovering, and will make an attempt at sketching in some of the details.

[V] arrived on that Saturday as promised, and I went to fetch her at the station. Then on getting her back to Longleat, I asked her if she'd like to read my novel, and she agreed to do this. I did warn her that she would probably hate me for what I'd written in it, but she assured me that this would not be her reaction. Then I went out for a long walk in the woods - for several hours in fact.

When I finally returned, which was shortly before dinner, I found her standing there in my drawing room. She told me coolly that there was a letter for me to read - pointing to where she'd left it. Then she walked out from the room. I sat down in an armchair to read it, knowing full well by then that my hopes were in ruins.

A huge despair overcame me as I perceived the absurdity of my original intent. But I was in no competitive spirit. My first instinct was to get myself drunk before she returned, but I'm glad that I refrained from doing that. Instead of that I sat smoking while waiting for her to return. I was blaming myself for ever supposing that I might be expressing something of importance in `The Lost Ideal'. But if she had found my novel painful to read, then she had certainly managed to clobber me back where it really hurt. It had brought us no closer however, to a resolution of our problems than before. It merely left us with the potential for glowering at one another from separate sides of the newly defined divide.

My intention had never been to wound [V], and I think she did appreciate that when she finally returned to the drawing room. On reentering, she'd taken a cool look at me and appraised that my mood was far from combative. I was even apologizing for what I'd written, so she could afford to take a gentler line. And now that she'd taken her return shot at me (in the letter that is to say,) she was quite happy to repair the friendship - well short of anything sexual, that is to say.

[V] is such a strange girl. Once she had registered that I was (so to speak) totally disarmed, she re-emerged as the understanding girl that I'd expected to find waiting for me when I'd first returned from my walk. Throughout dinner, and afterwards, we got round to discussing most aspects of the relationship - where it had gone wrong, etc. And I tried to get her to empathise with the motivations that set me writing this novel. I also tried to explain to her how I do realize that I am insufficiently worked out as a human being, at this given point in time. And I do see how I need to make this personal evolution before I'll be a fit person for anyone to live with. That will take time of course. But it's not impossible that I'll succeed in such an endeavour before I've finished with Paris.

Anyway that's the big hope. But [V] was allowing me to do most of the talking, displaying a distinct reserve on her own side. She wasn't giving much expression to whatever line of thought may have been going on in her own head - something which is in many ways quite typical of her. In some ways this might be evidence of her strength of character. But on the other hand it denoted an unwillingness to communicate with me. And fairly soon in any case, we just went to bed - separately.

She had said how she'd have to catch a train next morning, and I did understand how this might be for the best. I've got to get started upon my personal evolution before I'll be ready to see her again. All was friendly until the moment she boarded her train, but I'm left feeling uncertain just how long it may be before we see one another again.

I did in fact write [V] a nice letter, telling her how I understood how she felt, but also revealing that I was continuing in this task of trying to write my first novel - making use of the material within our relationship. Now I don't know if I have managed to offend her by revealing that I am going on with it, but in any case she has neglected to answer my letter, which depresses me greatly. I want her as a friend, and it doesn't look as if I am managing to retain her as such. But I can't permit myself to start moping on that score. I'd just go to pieces that way.

There is so much danger within my present state of mind that I abdicate the central control of my identity - clinging to straws which might appear more substantial than my inner core, in the hopes that they will float me through this crisis. But I've got to remain at the helm of my own ship, taking all the necessary decisions that will ensure that I remain a fully integrated personality. And the essential concern is that I should avoid fretting over such matters as this disruption within my romantic life. I have got to perceive that it's just a short term disturbance, which will eventually appear trivial enough when viewed in retrospect. In the meantime, I've got to keep going as I am.

Lucian Freud came over to have a drink with me, a couple of weeks back, bringing a young friend of his who is also a painter - by the name of Michael Andrews. And then more recently, I was invited over to dinner with him at Donhead St Mary - on that occasion with Michael Pitt-Rivers as an additional guest. There was no sign of Caroline on either occasion, which makes me assume that they have finally broken up. I noted how there was no mention of her at all. But I always seem to be the last person to hear about that manner of development, as far as local gossip is concerned. And it might well be that Lucian wouldn't want me to know precisely about Caroline's movements, in that he must have perceived how there is a spark of attraction between the two of us. So the less I get told, from his point of view, the better.

I've just had my last weekend at Longleat, before transferring to Paris, where I'll be picking up on my former art studies. I had invited the Lucas-Tooths to come and stay, and then [F] and Tatiana O came over for dinner on the Sunday. It turned out to be a pleasant gathering from start to finish - although I'm still not clear what [F] may have had on her mind, in that she had written to me to say that she'd like to see me alone before I left for France.

I regret it now, but I thought it might turn out to be embarrassing if I were to meet her on her own. The idea that she might be going to suggest that we were both unattached, and might therefore see rather more of one another, was a possibility that I wouldn't have quite known how to handle. So I'd suggested that we'd have an opportunity to discuss whatever she might want after dinner, despite the fact that I'd invited other guests. In the event however, she joked aside the suggestion that we should go for our talk in private - so I'll never know what it may have been that she'd been intending to say.

But of course I'm still intrigued to know the answer. Could it be that she'd been bearing some manner of suggestion from [Y] ?- but I rather doubt this. Or might she have been going to suggest I pay greater interest in Tatiana? Who knows? It was really most stupid of me to miss out on the opportunity to probe further into whatever was on her mind.

Much of the conversation of course, was on how our various friends and acquaintances had fared in Schools. John himself was the only one of my close friends to obtain a First - apart from Christopher Arnander, who really falls within a wider circle of my friends. John intends to invest some money of his own to go into partnership with Teddy Hall - as a fellow scientist of course.