Now it is night--I have had a miserable, lonely dinner in my
sitting-room, Véronique has been most gracious and coddling--she feels
Mr. Carruthers in the air, I suppose,--and so I must go to bed.
Oh! why am I not happy, and why don’t I think this is a delightful and
unusual situation, as I once would have done. I only feel depressed
and miserable, and as if I wished Christopher at the bottom of the
sea. I have told myself how good-looking he is--and how he attracted
me at Branches--but that was before--yes, I may as well write what I
was going to--before Lord Robert arrived. Well, he and Lady Ver are
talking together on a nice sofa by now, I suppose, in a big, well-lit
drawing-room, and--oh!--I wish, I _wish_ I had never made any bargain
with her--perhaps now in that case--ah well----
_Sunday afternoon._
No! I can’t bear it. All the morning I have been in a fever, first hot
and then cold. What will it be like. Oh! I shall faint when he kisses
me. And I know he will be dreadful like that, I have seen it in his
eye--he will eat me up. Oh! I am sure I shall hate it. No man has ever
kissed me in my life, and I can’t judge, but I am sure it is frightful,
unless----I feel as if I shall go crazy if I stay here any longer. I
can’t, I can’t stop and wait, and face it. I must have some air first.
There is a misty fog. I would like to go out and get lost in it, and I
_will_ too! Not get lost, perhaps, but go out in it, and alone. I won’t
have even Véronique. I shall go by myself into the Park. It is growing
nearly dark, though only three o’clock. I have got an hour. It looks
mysterious, and will soothe me, and suit my mood, and then, when I
come in again, I shall perhaps be able to bear it bravely, kisses and
all.