I got back to Los Angeles yesterday morning. Instead of starting, as
planned, for New York, my change of plans being due to a telegram from
Mr. Lehr of the Goldwyn Company asking me if I would dine on Monday
night next to meet Charlie Chaplin, who is due to arrive that day. And
so of course I succumbed to another delay in my schedule. A month ago
I should have been back in New York but time, they say, was made for
slaves--.
This evening, at sunset, Dick and I drove past the flying field and
watched the planes set out against the evening sky. Dick begged to be
allowed to go up, but I was frankly afraid. This morning I was ashamed
of my fear. I know that I was wrong. One should always trust people,
things, Destiny. So Louise and Dick and I crushed into a small front
seat and took a flight out over the sea. It was cool and it was steady.
The green fields and the plough patches looked like little mats laid
out to dry. The motors on the roads like small crawling beetles. We
could see the mountains behind the mountains, and way down below us, on
the earth, our little shadow followed us. Dick loved it--he wanted to
fly on and on. It is a great privilege to be born in an age when one
can get up and leave the earth the moment one is bored with it.