The New Moon with the Old by Dodie Smith

when we shall meet again!’ She was glad Jane had looked up. Now Jane, as well as Betty, would have a smile to remember.
    So much to be done – and so little she could safely do until the household settled for the night, as someone mightignore her request that she shouldn’t be disturbed. She could write her farewell note but felt it would be unlucky to do that before she was ready to leave. It would be best to pass the time by making an entry in her journal, particularly as she had said she was going to; even the shortest entry would turn that lie into the truth. She disapproved of lying and even of ‘acting a lie’. But she sometimes gave herself a dispensation by feeling she was ‘playing a part’. She would have to play a continuous part for the next six months.
    She unlocked the drawer where she kept the journal, settled at her desk, and wrote:
    ‘I am not in the mood for journal writing so I will only say that this is the most important night of my whole life. Soon, when the house is sleeping—’
    She broke off. The mood for journal writing had come on with such a rush that she knew she would write for hours if she let it have its head. She therefore concluded:
    ‘But no more now. When – and where – shall I next take up my pen? What a cliché’! I apologize, Posterity!’
    Posterity, frequently addressed, had become for her a composite creation made up of herself when old and famous, biographers of her famous self, the British Museum, and some critic who would one day write: ‘Publication of the journal proves she was as great a writer as she was an actress.’ But she never visualized this composite Posterity without rebuking herself for conceit which she already recognized, if only occasionally, as her most menacing sin.
    Posterity, anyway, was located in the far-away future. She would be outraged if anyone but herself read the journal now. Suppose her family searched for it, even broke openher drawer, in the hope of finding clues to where she’d gone? Could she take the journal with her? Well, hardly; not twenty-two exercise books.
    Inspiration descended. At one time she’d had a passion for sealing her letters. Yes, she still had her sealing-wax set – complete with matches and a fat red candle. (What a child one had been at twelve!) She also had some string. After tying the exercise books together, she sealed the string at the knot and every criss-cross; then wrote a note in red ink:
    ‘There is nothing in this journal which will help anyone to trace me. Please respect my privacy. I have complete confidence that I shall find the seals unbroken on my return. Thank you.’
    That, she felt sure, would prove a potent message.
    By the time she had put the journal back in its drawer, the party below was breaking up. She waited a full half-hour, then tip-toed onto the gallery. No light could be seen under any door. The real business of her night could begin.
    First, she got out one of her recent purchases, a bright blue packet on which was the picture of a Titian-haired beauty. According to the instructions, you first washed your hair and then poured over it a jug of water into which part of the contents of the packet had been stirred. ‘Enough for three rinses, unless a very deep shade is required.’ She did require a deep shade, the rich auburn of the wig she had worn as Juliet, so she would use the whole packet.
    Thanking God and her grandmother for her fitted wash basin, she began washing her hair. But even this part of the operation did not prove easy. Usually Clare did the job for her, while she held a towel to her face. Now the soap got into her eyes and she kept banging her head on the taps. The tinting was still more difficult; so much of the mixture wentinto her ears or down her back. And her hair emerged merely looking dark instead of mousy – but one couldn’t really judge until it was dry. She pinned up some curls, put on a setting net and hoped for the best.
    Now she would pack. This