June 29. Monday.—A short letter has come at last from Mrs. Romilly, the coldest briefest epistle I have ever had from her. Does this mean that she is seriously vexed or distressed with what I have said—or have not said? Well, I can only go straight on, meeting each difficulty as it arises. I will write again soon. But I cannot pretend to believe that Maggie does really care for me. I know she does not.
Calling to-day at Glynde Cottage, I could not help thinking again about "incompatibility of temper," and the rubs which must come to one in daily life. I do not often see Ramsay Hepburn. He is a tall lanky youth, slightly lame, and just invalidish enough to give an excuse for perpetual fuss about his own health. I suppose he has his better side, and his pleasanter moods; but this afternoon he was by no means agreeable.
Not that he meant to be disagreeable to me. He is given to showing a rather elaborate politeness to people outside his own home-circle, so elaborate, in fact, that he seems to have none remaining for home-use. I overheard him snub Gladys two or three times, when he thought it would be unnoticed; and he has an objectionable habit of breaking into what Mrs. Hepburn or any one else is saying, contradicting, questioning statements, and getting up absurd little discussions on every possible unimportant point.
If somebody else remarks that the wind is east, Ramsay declares it to be west. If somebody else expects a fine day, Ramsay is certain it will rain. If Mrs. Hepburn refers to an event as having happened on the 10th of February, Ramsay contends that it occurred on the 9th. If Gladys observes that Mr. Smith told a fact to Mr. Brown, Ramsay will have it that the information came from Mr. Robinson to Mr. Jones.
That sort of individual must be very trying to live with. Mrs. Hepburn is most gentle and forbearing, but I could not help pitying her and Gladys, not to speak of "Uncle Tom." And then I remembered that they all needed opportunities for patience. No doubt Ramsay is one of the family "opportunities."
July 2. Thursday.—I could not have thought that I should be so weak, so easily unhinged. I, who always pride myself on my powers of self-restraint.
I suppose it was the thing coming so suddenly, with no sort of expectation on my part.
Yesterday morning an invitation arrived from Lady Denham, for all of us to spend the afternoon at The Park: not only the girls and myself, but also Miss Millington and the little ones. Nobody else was to be there except ourselves. Denham was asked, but he had a half-holiday cricket engagement. Mr. Romilly was asked too, and he sighed, complained of his inability for exertion, wished kind friends would leave him in peace—er,—settled after all to go, and finally stayed at home.
Tennis was for a while the order of the day; then came tea on the lawn, with a profusion of strawberries and cream. Then tennis again, or rambling about the lovely garden, whichever one preferred,—and I had a very pleasant stroll with Lady Denham, who thawed and became quite friendly. I was surprised, having heard much of her coldness.
Since coming to Glynde I have not played tennis for I am afraid of seeming too juvenile. They used to say in Bath that I always looked young over tennis.