“I’ve just said, mother——”
“Because a very interesting thing is happening,” said mother, trying to look playfull. “I—a chance any girl would jump at.”
So here I sit, Dear Dairy, while there are sounds of revelery below, and Sis jumps at her chance, which is the Honorable Page Beresford, who is an Englishman visiting here because he has a weak heart and can’t fight. And father is away on business, and I am all alone.
I have been looking for a rash, but no luck.
Ah me, how the strains of the orkestra recall that magic night in the theater when Adrian Egleston looked down into my eyes and although ostensably to an actress, said to my beating heart: “My Darling! My Woman!”
3 A. M. I wonder if I can controll my hands to write.
In mother’s room across the hall I can hear furious Voices, and I know that Leila is begging to have me sent to Switzerland. Let her beg. Switzerland is not far from England, and in England——
Here I pause to reflect a moment. How is this thing possable? Can I love to members of the Other Sex? And if such is the Case, how can I go on with my Life? Better far to end it now, than to perchance marry one, and find the other still in my heart. The terrable thought has come to me that I am fickel.
Fickel or polygamus—which?
Dear Dairy, I have not been a good girl. My New Year’s Resolutions have gone to airey nothing.