Poor mama! She's so anxious to see me married. It's quite natural, after all. She looks very well herself yet in the evening, and it is awkward to have to drag a big marriageable daughter around at her heels.
I don't like it, either, for that matter. I know that I make her look older, and, therefore, as soon as we enter a room in the evening I slip away from her, and try to see as little as possible of her afterward until the carriage is announced. So each goes her own way, and interferes as little as possible with the other.
She's a dear, good old soul. There are mothers who simply bully their daughters, and worry them into marrying at five minutes' notice. Quite a leap in the dark. Mama isn't one of them.
Besides, she knows I have made up my mind not to be hurried—and not to decide carelessly. Marriage is not a trifling thing. If a mistake is made it is for life; so it's well to know what one is doing when one takes the plunge. When I get married it will be in all seriousness. I don't intend to tumble head over ears in love with the first newcomer, be he fair or dark, who says to his mother: "I've found the girl of my choice. I love her, and her alone. I'll have her or nobody."
Oh, no! I'm not going into that stupidity. I intend to keep my eyes open, and my wits about me.
Last spring I declined five very likely wooers simply because none of them offered all the advantages of birth, fortune, and position which I consider I am justified in demanding.
I shall follow the same course of action during the winter campaign—the same calm prudence. I am not yet twenty, so I can afford to wait.
Since this morning I have felt highly satisfied with myself—very highly satisfied. I have not been in the least affected by mother's open agitation. To-day, as usual, I have glanced through my notes.
On my eighteenth birthday I find I wrote the following simple words on the first page of my notebook, which I still keep carefully under lock and key: