Here I am making myself quite at home at the Horace Grays’. It is a cozy apartment, and I spent the night here last night — after being an hour late to dinner, even later than last time! Both the Grays are out, but this lazy person seems very content to relax and listen to Brahms songs, etc. One could do worse, but how curious to have a record collection consist [sic] of little else except Beethoven’s first opus, which will probably prove to be quite trivial when I give it a hearing.
I called up Mr. Dibblee, who wrote to me last week, but as this was the second call without success, I’d better drop him a line, even if it’s just to tell him it would be impossible to have lunch with him except possibly on a week day off such as to-day.
I called on Mrs. Maillard the other day, and she turned out to be a very nice old lady. Shortly thereafter some friends of hers with a daughter invited me out to dinner, said daughter taking me later to an officers club dance she was scheduled to appear at. Since she was attractive, even though not startlingly so, and an admirable dancer, the evening was a success. She also warbles — rather better than she converses. Next Tues. I dine with one of Mrs. Maillard’s sons and his son, an admiral’s aide (lt. commander) and Yale contemporary of mine, and his young English wife, who, according to Mrs. Maillard, married him as the first man she ever met!
And now the Beethoven. Actually it’s rather lovely — of course very Mozartian. After it I think I’ll take a trolley out to the beach and hire a bicycle even though the fog hangs thick. Until yesterday it had behaved pretty well, and we’ve done lots of flying, mostly dive bombing, which gets more and more accurate with each one of us. It seems we may not move away from Alameda after all until we move west, but one can never be sure.
It wouldn’t be surprising then to be here to Aug., though they say summers are apt to be rather unpleasant.