“Possably,” I remarked. “But I should like to see her in the morning, when she gets up.”
All the girls were perfectly mad about Mr. Egleston, although pretending merely to admire his Art. But I am being honest, as I agreed at the start, and now I know, as I sit here with the soft, although chilly breeses of the night blowing on my hot brow, now I know that this thing that has come to me is Love. Morover, it is the Love of my Life. He will never know it, but I am his. He is exactly my Ideal, strong and tall and passionate. And clever, to. He said some awfuly clever things.
I beleive that he saw me. He looked in my direction. But what does it matter? I am small, insignifacant. He probably thinks me a mere child, although seventeen.
What matters, oh Dairy, is that I am at last in Love. It is hopeless. Just now, when I had written that word, I buried my face in my hands. There is no hope. None. I shall never see him again. He passed out of my life on the 11:45 train. But I love him. Mon Dieu, how I love him!
January 11th. We are going home. We are going home. WE ARE GOING HOME. WE ARE GOING HOME!
Mademoiselle has the meazles.
January 13th. The Familey managed to restrain its ecstacy on seeing me today. The house is full of people, as they are having a Dinner-Dance tonight. Sis had moved into my room, to let one of the visitors have hers, and she acted in a very unfilial manner when she came home and found me in it.
“Well!” she said. “Expelled at last?”
“Not at all,” I replied in a lofty manner. “I am here through no fault of my own. And I’d thank you to have Hannah take your clothes off my bed.”
She gave me a bitter glanse.