I am waking up. I feel as if I were as covered with shutters as an old
anchor with barnacles, and every morning when I wake up I find more
shutters opened.
I think Cheneston must be perfectly appallingly rich. He has a villa in
Italy, and a little hut in Norway where he stays for the ski-ing season,
and the white yacht _Mellow Hours_ in the harbour is his.
It's more fairy tale-y than ever.
Mother and father are delighted at my engagement; but their surprise is
rather humiliating, it does make me realise how awfully plain and dull I
am.
I haven't any parlour tricks or conversation, my tennis is rotten, I'm
sick on the yacht, I swim like a mechanical toy, I haven't the foggiest
idea how to play golf, and I'm never sure of my twinkle in jazzing--and
Grace Gilpin does all these things absolutely toppingly. She's been
trained to do them from quite a little kid.
We seem to do everything in fours--I and Cheneston, and Grace Gilpin and
a man called Markham, Walter Markham, who adores her.
Cheneston is sweet to me when we're all together, but when he and I
leave the others and are alone sometimes he hardly speaks.