“Not my name—I know that.”
“Nor your description, nor anything by which anybody would recognize you.”
“Except myself. For what is this?” she exclaimed, taking it from him and opening a page. “August 7. That’s the day before yesterday. But I won’t read it,” Elfride said, closing the book again with pretty hauteur. “Why should I? I had no business to ask to see your book, and it serves me right.”
Knight hardly recollected what he had written, and turned over the book to see. He came to this:
“Aug. 7. Girl gets into her teens, and her self-consciousness is born. After a certain interval passed in infantine helplessness it begins to act. Simple, young, and inexperienced at first. Persons of observation can tell to a nicety how old this consciousness is by the skill it has acquired in the art necessary to its success—the art of hiding itself. Generally begins career by actions which are popularly termed showing-off. Method adopted depends in each case upon the disposition, rank, residence, of the young lady attempting it. Town-bred girl will utter some moral paradox on fast men, or love. Country miss adopts the more material media of taking a ghastly fence, whistling, or making your blood run cold by appearing to risk her neck. (MEM. On Endelstow Tower.)
“An innocent vanity is of course the origin of these displays. ‘Look at me,’ say these youthful beginners in womanly artifice, without reflecting whether or not it be to their advantage to show so very much of themselves. (Amplify and correct for paper on Artless Arts.)”
“Yes, I remember now,” said Knight. “The notes were certainly suggested by your manoeuvre on the church tower. But you must not think too much of such random observations,” he continued encouragingly, as he noticed her injured looks. “A mere fancy passing through my head assumes a factitious importance to you, because it has been made permanent by being written down. All mankind think thoughts as bad as those of people they most love on earth, but such thoughts never getting embodied on paper, it becomes assumed that they never existed. I daresay that you yourself have thought some disagreeable thing or other of me, which would seem just as bad as this if written. I challenge you, now, to tell me.”
“The worst thing I have thought of you?”
“Yes.”
“I must not.”