Monday, July 4:
R. had a good night; he takes his waters, and we have breakfast in the pavilion. He says goodbye to the conductor, telling him jokingly to stick to his telegram and remain "ruefully resolute."
I receive a letter from Lusch: her father insists on a meeting. I discuss it with R., who is vexed when I tell him that I should like to spare Hans a discussion after a long hot journey, and I myself would therefore travel as far as possible in his direction. I am overcome by an overwhelming sadness. R. bemoans the fact that in this matter he can only be silent; and that, consciously or unconsciously, Hans is using the situation maliciously.
The last eleven words were obliterated in ink by an unknown hand.
We are alone at supper; my strength deserts me, and when R. reads to me some nice things about the elephants in India, I am unable to hold back my tears. However, the glowworms help, as well as lovely moonlight and a balmy night and, above all, the dear, dear children: "You mustn't be sad," says Loldi, and she is right. Oh, how right! How could I dare to complain?