Perhaps she did not understand that Papa needs quietness to pursue his work. His desk is all about with pages of his novel. I am sure his writing was the cause of it, because he wished for quietness, but Mama was hardly ever that. Richard was always kissing her of late. I wonder why. Perhaps he has long wanted to go to Liverpool, for he prefers a city life, and so I expect him to be pleased. I asked Mama is it nice to kiss, and she laughed and said 'Of course it is', but would not tell me any more until my birthday, so she said.

I do not think Mama and Papa had very much in common, and I hope that is not a horrid thing to say.

Papa says he will buy me a pony for my birthday. He must have thought of it of a sudden. Perhaps he saw a picture in a book, for I had not dared ask for one. I sometimes think of things that way, by looking in a book. I was undressing when he came up to my room. How awful- oh-my drawers were off and I had one leg raised upon my bed to peel my stockings down! Oh, I did blush!

Papa said 'Oh!' and shut the door again. I knew that he felt awful, just like me. He did not go away, and then I heard him call, 'It is about your birthday, Sylvia. Would you like a pony?'

'Yes!', I called and tumbled on my nightdress quickly lest he come within again. I waited, but he did not come. 'Thank you, Papa', I called.

'I will tell you in the morning', he replied, though he already had.

My thing has lots of curls around it now. I brush them with my fingers when I am in bed. Perhaps I should not. I wonder if it's wrong?

Mama said naughty things to Richard sometimes, he told me, but would not say what she had said. He was horrid and I think he made it up. He had his trousers open, but I would not look.

Phillip's Day-Book

I grow uneasy at the thought that I have perhaps proposed a pony where Sylvia would better have a true companion. I asked her so. 'Who, Papa?', she replied and looked a little puzzled at my seriousness. 'I am perfectly all right, Papa, I really am', she said, and played with Rose again upon the swing. The two are very close, it seems to me. The servant should be at her work, but again I feel powerless-selfish even-to intrude, and would be better at my work than thinking of such things.