Tuesday, August 1:
R. feels so unwell that he has taken refuge in cold packs. It indeed does him good, and at lunch he is lively and talkative. We have the same companionable guests, with whom I go out in a boat while R. settles some things in town.
Lovely moonlight; late in the evening R. reads to us “Die gerechten Kammacher” by G. Keller. The talent it shows is greater perhaps than the unpleasantness of its subject, and we laugh a lot.
When the company breaks up and R. and I are left alone, we tend to embrace and rediscover each other with perhaps even more fervor than usual. R. says how beautiful he finds me, indeed he cannot imagine anything more beautiful, and I in my bliss say nothing. He is glad to have me running his house and entertaining people, and his contentment is my whole happiness.