"The minister and Evan Sinclair came up to say good-bye," I said.
"And since then?"
I took my diary, which still lay on my knee, and hid it under the sofa cushions.
"Since then," I said, "I have been correcting—that is, writing my diary."
"Oh, the diary!" exclaimed Mrs. Fielden delightedly. "I had forgotten about that!"
"No, you hadn't," I said to myself. "It is only part of your wilful, uncomprehendable, untranslatable charm that makes you pretend sometimes that you have no memory. As a matter of fact, you knew from the first that it would be a relief to an egotistical grumbler to get rid of his spleen sometimes on blue ruled essay paper, and so you set him a task to do, and you have often wondered since how he is getting on with it.
"I think I must see the diary," said Mrs. Fielden.
"That you certainly shall not," I said; and I pushed the book still farther under the sofa cushions—just as if it was necessary to fight with Mrs. Fielden for anything, or any use either!
"I thought you promised," said Mrs. Fielden.
"If I did I have changed my mind," I said firmly.