20 January

There has been another disturbance among the scullery maids, with the result that dinner arrived both late and also somehow a bit en deshabille (oh where is an accent on the keyboard when you need two?). The quail's legs were, I am afraid, not properly tied together. Miss Prism, in fact, refused to eat them altogether. I thought they tasted fine. Uncle Jack says good help is *so* hard to find these days. I am *so* afraid this may be the early signs of a Catholic revolt in our very household. I must confide in Peter and be sure he will be ready to protect me should such a devastating occurrence come to pass.

Later—Peter very petulant indeed.