What becomes of the “bachelor-girl” of forty-five? And fifty?
That, I suppose, I shall have to wait and find out for myself, thanks to Mr. Sydney Vandeleur!
Why couldn’t he have left things as they were at the Carlton?—
But I’ve had enough of this. It has “done me up” completely.
I am going to bed.
* * * * *
This morning I feel, if anything, angrier with Sydney Vandeleur than I did before.
He’s done it now! He has written.
His note lies before me on our wobbly little breakfast-table with the metal coffee-pot and the green Bruges crock full of lilac (bought out of my “rise”!) screening me from Cicely’s anxious eyes as I read: