7.55 P.M. W. at parlor window. Had not been out at all today. "We did not go—I have been sick all day—am sick now—feeling bad indeed." Put his hand up to his head. "It's here—here: the strange mugginess, inertia, soreness." I left with W. a letter from Clifford, containing a portrait of Dr. True, at Farmington, and ordering book. W. wished to keep "for a day or so." Would "send book directly to Clifford." Left with him likewise sheets complete now but for title pages, of birthday book. I spoke to him of filling up blank page between "contents" and his own speech. He inquired: "So you think it would be the thing? Not inappropriate?—not out of the way?" And to my assent— "Well—I'll examine this as it stands—see what is suggests—see what comes of it: perhaps a page, perhaps nothing. I can well understand there should be no impropriety in it. Just now, however, I can say nothing." Then he asked: "Is Dave home? I got an order for a copy of the big book from him or someone there who writes much like him—received it just today." But McKay is not yet returned.
"And now," he asked, "how about the meeting last night—the George meeting? I see a suggestion of its value in the papers—that the papers give it good mention—some even long." Questioned me closely for details— "the scene, who was there—tell me." I had seen Gilchrist. W. thought it "probably of more than artistic interest to Herbert." Gave him insurance receipt, which he folded up and put in his pocket. He had laid out for me the profile plate for the complete works, which I was to get printed at Billstein's. Ingram in to see him today. "He stayed 20 minutes or so."