When I am with people I feel as if I am a fairy princess taking part in a fairy play, a wonderful and desirable and adorable person. It is a perfectly marvellous feeling; and when I am alone with Cheneston I feel as if he switched the limelight off with an impatient hand, and I was just a plain, shabby, silly kid.
He has bought me an engagement ring—for the six weeks before he goes to the front.
"Let us be as beastly orthodox as possible," he said as he popped it on. "Why don't you look after your nails—you've got decent hands."
"What shall I do with it when——"
"When you write and break off the engagement! Oh! keep it if you like."
It is a platinum set with one glorious ruby, an enormous stone. You could almost warm yourself by the red there is in it.
I love warm things, and glows and twinkles and brightness.
I am waking up. I feel as if I were as covered with shutters as an old anchor with barnacles, and every morning when I wake up I find more shutters opened.
I think Cheneston must be perfectly appallingly rich. He has a villa in Italy, and a little hut in Norway where he stays for the ski-ing season, and the white yacht Mellow Hours in the harbour is his.
It's more fairy tale-y than ever.