“Yes, I am tired,” I tried to say in a natural voice, but the end word shook a little, and Lord Robert was just behind, having run up the stairs after me, so I fear he must have heard.
“Miss Travers—please—” he implored, but I walked on up the next flight, and Lady Ver put her hand on his arm, and drew him down with her, and as I got up to the fourth floor I heard the front door shut.
And now they are gone, and I am alone. My tiny room is comfortable, and the fire is burning brightly. I have a big armchair and books, and this, my journal, and all is cosy—only I feel so miserable.
I won’t cry and be a silly coward.
Why, of course it is amusing to be free. And I am not grieving over Mrs. Carruthers’ death—only perhaps I am lonely, and I wish I were at the theatre. No, I don’t—I—oh, the thing I do wish is that—that—No, I won’t write it even.
Good-night, Journal!
300, Park Street,
Wednesday November 23rd.
OH! how silly to want the moon! but that is evidently what is the matter with me. Here I am in a comfortable house with a kind hostess, and no immediate want of money, and yet I am restless, and sometimes unhappy.