More packing. In a haze of irritability, especially when I consider how much pleasanter these last few days would be if I had only begun to send things home sooner. One of the pleasantest sorts of the idleness is that which gives the illusion of business, as all the world well knows. But this is ever the way of things, to know and to know and to know a thing is true and necessary (such as packing one’s things, ending a conversation, saying hello) and yet never doing them. Did find time to read a little book on Latin literature and go for coffee with J., H., and R. (& her inevitable boy). Returned late, from the smoky warm glow of the café through the clear air to evening.