as always, delafield deleterious...

... to my prose style, which takes on loads of Delafieldian ticks without rising to Delafieldian heights. I even think in Delafield when I'm reading The Provincial Lady, which is why I can only look at it when I am miles away from writing important prose.

This time through, I am particularly enjoying the silent husband, Robert, with whom I naturally identify. For instance:

Robert writes briefly, but adds P.S Isn't it time I thought about coming home again? which I think means he is missing me, and feel slightly exhilarated.

and

Doughty Street left behind, yellow-and-white dust-sheets amply sufficing for entire flat, and Robert meets me at station. He seems pleased to see me but says little until seated in drawing-room after dinner, when he suddenly remarks that He has Missed Me. Am astonished and delighted, and should like him to enlarge on theme, but this he does not do, and we revert to wireless and The Times.

and, after quizzing Robert to little avail as to what he thought of old beau and old beau's new wife

Make final enquiry as to what I looked like last night, and whether Robert thinks that eighteen years makes much difference in one's appearance?
Robert, perhaps rightly, ignores the last half of this, and replies to the former - after some thought - that I looked just as usual, but he doesn't much care about that green dress. Am sufficiently unwise to press for further information, at which Robert looks worried, but finally admits that, to his mind, the green dress makes me look Tawdry.
Am completely disintegrated by this adjective, which recurs to me in the midst of whatever I am doing, for the whole of the remainder of the day.