Grace is always asking Cheneston if he has heard, and whenever Cheneston answers he avoids looking at me.
Sometimes I honestly think Cheneston thinks I might have cared for Mr. Markham, perhaps did care for him, and my supposed engagement to himself spoilt and prevented things ever coming to a head.
I know Cheneston is horribly unhappy.
I know Grace is equally wretched.
Neither of them knows how miserable I am, or that I suspect they are.
Sometimes life seems so strange to me, peopled by a lot of actors and actresses all living little lies.
I know Cheneston will never tell Grace that his engagement to me is only a farce. He has a fierce sense of honour, it makes him regard all sorts of things that other men do every day as utterly and absolutely impossible.
Sometimes I have thought of going to Grace and telling her the whole story of the mistake from beginning to end; but it might make things even more impossible for Grace, because it isn't the sort of story a woman should tell a woman.
I wish I could learn to care for one of the boys and they for me, it would simplify matters; but not one of them is a bit keen. Their eyes shine when I sing—but they shine because of the memories I bring of other girls.
I am just "a nice little thing" and "a perfect sport"—and it is as safe as being the mother of sons too old for the Army.