did. And the bald-headed old horror! And that waiter!--a waiter,

actually, my dear!--such a ridiculous fellow! Don’t you remember how impertinent he was to her? How he treated her as if she were the dirt beneath his feet! It was the funniest thing you ever saw.

I knew. My prophetic soul saw it all in store for me, being acquainted with the family methods where anything which would point a gibe against me was concerned.

Putting on my hat I went out. The atmosphere of the house, even of my own room, was insupportable. It would not have been surprising if someone had endeavoured to stay me, for with Jane, assisted only by a charwoman, I had to play the part of second maid. But no one did. I was conscious that someone came to the drawing-room window as I went by. But I did not notice who it was; and as, so far as I know, no attempt was made to attract my attention, I did not care.

I steered for Kensington Gardens. They were the nearest available approach to the country for which I was always longing; and there, sometimes, one could be alone with the grass, and the trees, and the birds. That was my dominant feeling: the desire to get away from everyone, from everything. To transplant myself from this world, in which I had been, and was, and should be, such an utter failure. If I could only find myself in a different environment, in some place where people were not principally concerned with each other’s appearance, where one could dress as one pleased, and do as one chose, and be comfortable, and yet not be the subject of perpetual comment; where one could have liberty to be a woman, a girl, in one’s own way, which would not be such a dreadful way after all, where one could be even huge and plain and not despised, what a place that would be.

As I tramped through the trees, seeking a spot which was not overrun with nursemaids, and all kinds of persons, I perceived no prospect of ever finding such a haven; unless, perhaps, it were by way of the Round Pond, if it contains water to cover a person of my unseemly inches. On the other side of it, almost obscured by the trunk of a great oak, I saw two chairs. Not only were they unoccupied, but there seemed to be no one in their immediate neighbourhood. So I planted myself in one. In Kensington Gardens no one ever sits upon the grass. Not only would it be in the highest degree improper, but it would spoil one’s clothes, and everyone would stare, and take one for quite a common person. Such an act would be impossible. If one sits at all, one sits upon a chair,--as I did then, though I would infinitely have preferred the ground, and my back against a tree, because the chair was most uncomfortable. And I prepared to lash myself with pessimistic and painful reflections on some such cheerful topic as the Vanity of Human Wishes--please put in the capital letters.

Unfortunately, the sun was shining; and when the sun shines, and I am out-of-doors, and the air is fresh and sweet, and one feels that the summer is at hand, and there is no unsympathetic person to stick pins in you, somehow I never can make as much of my distresses as I ought to; they seem to melt. To begin with, they are solid; in fact, immensely solid, and I mean to keep them solid. Indeed, I often set out with the deliberate intention of considering nothing else but their immense solidity, and allowing nothing to interfere with my consideration either. Then, in some way, the sunshine gets into my eyes, or head, or something, and has a sort of a kind of a dazzling effect. It must have, because, all of a sudden, they are gone--or seem gone. I cannot see them anywhere. Of course, it is absurd, and most illogical; because, all the time, they must be there. But it really is fatal for me to start thinking of my grievances in fine weather. No matter how resolved I am to stick to the subject, I never can keep my mind fixed on them when the sun is shining, and I am out-of-doors--never.

It was like that, then. I had not been on that chair three minutes when Ben Morgan came and seated himself on the one just next. I was too surprised for words, having had no notion that he was anywhere within miles. His coming in that unexpected and startling fashion knocked all the ideas clean out of my head, except the consciousness of my disgraceful conduct to him the day before. But his tact was marvellous; I always have been struck by it. He never hinted at it by so much as a syllable. And presently, to my absolute amazement, I found myself chattering away as if I had come out for that especial purpose.

We began with what was in the newspaper, which I did not happen to have seen, though, from what I could gather from him, I had not lost much. And then--well then, the subject was changed. A white poodle crossed in front of us, and we began talking about dogs. We were both of us very fond of dogs, and, indeed, all sorts of animals; so that it was a topic which was interesting to us both. Then the subject was changed again. Became personal. Drifted, as it were. I have always laughed at people who did that sort of thing in Kensington Gardens. I never thought I should have done it--never. But it became sunnier and sunnier every moment, until I was looking at everything through a golden haze.

Well--I said I would. And when I confessed my shame and my contrition for my behaviour to him yesterday, he said it did not matter--nothing mattered now. And I was the happiest girl in the world! As for being sorry because that fatal power of mine had endured for so short a time, it was the best thing that could have happened. I was delighted. How awful it would have been if everyone I met had kept on falling in love with me right off--high and low, married and single, young and old--when I wanted to be loved by no one else but Ben.

When I told him, in a muddly way, of what had occurred, you should have seen how deliciously he was amused. Though he did say one ridiculous thing--that he could see nothing miraculous in people falling in love with me at sight, since no man worth his salt could help it. Of course I knew that that was one of love’s sweet perjuries. I am not sure that truth is always the thing which is most to be desired.

He is not at all mis-shapen, really; or, if he is, the tiniest scrap: I love him all the more because of it. To me, he will always be straighter than I am; and, ever since I was the merest tot, for straightness, I have been a perfect grenadier.

He would walk home with me; and he told them about it, then and there. You should have seen mamma and the girls when we walked in together. We had actually forgotten lunch; it was quite late in the afternoon; they were beginning to wonder what had become of me. When they learnt, their faces were a study. But they were positively as nice as possible to both of us. Mamma kissed me, and was quite sweet to Ben; and Audrey, in particular, said some lovely things.

... We are going to have that scrap of paper, on which the writing was, framed, and hung up in--in our bedroom.

[The End]

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Alterations to the text:

Add TOC.

Change several instances of _anyrate_ to _any rate_.

Minor punctuation fixes.

Note: minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies have been left as is.

[Chapter III]

“I am a kind of raree show, So whenever...” change comma to period.

[Chapter V]

“among all my compeers. am best qualified...” change period to comma.

[Chapter IX]

“than to the end of a _women’s_ arm.” to _woman’s_.

“scarcely saying _bo_! to a goose” to _boo_.

[Chapter XVIII]

Change “when they were _yonng_” to _young_.

Change “on the _otber_ side of the top...” to _other_.

[Chapter XX]

“or rage. or something.” change the period after _rage_ to a comma.

Change “But this time I _sha’n’t_ mind.” to _shan’t_.

[Chapter XXV]

Change “A _promonitory_ something was...” to _premonitory_.

[End of Text]