I stay out here, after bowls, to say - what? on this possibly last night of peace. Will the 9 o'clock bulletin end it all? - our lives, oh yes, and everything for the next fifty years? Everyone's writing I suppose about this last day. I walked on the downs; lay under a cornstack and looked at the empty land and the pinkish clouds in a perfect blue summer afternoon sky. Not a sound. Workmen discussing war on the road - one for it, one against. For us its like being on a small island. Neither of us has any physical fear. Why should we? But there's a vast calm cold gloom. And the strain. Like waiting for a doctor's verdict. And the young- young men smashed up. But the point is one is too numbed to think. Old Clive sitting on the terrace, says 'I don't want to live through it.' Explains that his life recedes. Has had the best. We privately are so content. Bliss day after day. So happy cooking dinner, playing bowls. No feeling of patriotism. How to go on, through war? - that's the question. Yes, it's a lovely still summer evening; not a sound. A swallow came into the sitting room.