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.