Friday night, November 4th.
This morning Mr. Carruthers had his coffee alone. Mr. Barton and I breakfasted quite early, before 9 o’clock, and just as I was calling the dogs in the hall for a run, with my outdoor things already on, Mr. Carruthers came down the great stairs with a frown on his face.
“Up so early!” he said. “Are you not going to pour out my tea for me, then?”
“I thought you said coffee! No, I am going out,” and I went on down the corridor, the wolf-hounds following me.
“You are not a kind hostess!” he called after me.
“I am not a hostess at all,” I answered back, “only a guest.”
He followed me. “Then you are a very casual guest, not consulting the pleasure of your host.”
I said nothing; I only looked at him over my shoulder, as I went down the marble steps—looked at him, and laughed as on the night before.
He turned back into the house without a word, and I did not see him again until just before luncheon.
There is something unpleasant about saying good-bye to a place, and I found I had all sorts of sensations rising in my throat at various points in my walk. However, all that is ridiculous, and must be forgotten. As I was coming round the corner of the terrace, a great gust of wind nearly blew me into Mr. Carruthers’ arms. Odious weather we are having this autumn.