[From Helen's Diary.]

February, —. Breakfasted this morning in my own room. Could not entertain the thought of ever seeing or speaking to Edgar again.

I looked haggard when I got up. I did not sleep an hour all night. While I was making a sorry attempt to eat some breakfast, and strengthening my determination never to speak to Edgar again, Woolet brought up a note, saying that Edgar told him to give it to me as soon as I was up.

I was like adamant and determined not to look at it. I should have sent it down to him immediately, but for the curiosity such a thing would have aroused among the servants.

As Woolet was going, he said:

"Mr. Braine said Madame would please forward all his mail that came to-day."

I was thunderstruck. Forward his mail! I snatched up the note, all my determination gone.

It was but a few lines, saying that he took the 9:10 train for New York, on business, and would return on Friday—this is Tuesday.

I felt like a baby. I sent Susanne away, and burst out crying. It seemed to me that I must see him, and soften the situation a little.

I could never have consented to this thing that he proposed, but it does not seem terrible enough to justify such severity—this morning.

It seems to me that I cannot endure the time until Friday—but when he returns I shall treat him with proper dignity, of course. It is my duty to make him feel that I judge his conduct severely. And yet, I will be forgiving and affectionate—to an extent. Only to an extent. (This will be very hard for me.)

I felt so wretched that I thought a drive would do me good, so at two, I went out. I became so tired and disgusted with meeting people and bowing to them, that I turned around and came home. There is nothing that makes a miserable person feel more miserable than to see people happier than herself.

I felt as though I was ready to drop when I got up the steps, and who should be in the reception-room but this very bone of contention, awaiting my return. I felt like flying up the stairs and locking myself in my room, but instead of doing so childish a thing, I walked into the room with admirable dignity.

I intended to see that he made his call very short; but after a moment we got talking of the new minister and his funny little wife, and in the gossip I seemed quite to forget my wretchedness for a while, and we went into the library, where it is cosier, and sat down by the fire and had a delightful afternoon.

Mrs. Hetherington called—as she pays no attention to days, but runs in promiscuously—and I sent word, "Not at home." I felt a little shocked at myself, and hardly knew what Mr. Everet thought—for it is a little unusual, of course, to keep a man whom you have met so seldom, gossiping a whole afternoon in your library, and denying yourself to all other callers—devoting yourself exclusively to him. And I shouldn't have done it—though there was really no harm in it—if Ed had not said what he did, last night.

I didn't encourage Mr. Everet to call again, nor try to be agreeable at all, but was just usual and everyday, just as I shall always be when he calls.

He seemed quite at home, and we had tea in the library, and he left just in time for me to dress for the English Minister's reception—where we met two hours later.

He—Mr. Everet—is more interesting than any of the men I have met. There is a dignity about him that I like, and that I have never found in anyone else but Edgar. I did not know what he would think of my letting him stay as I did, but he accepted it most naturally, as a matter of course—and it was a temptation, for I was so miserable that anything seemed acceptable that enlivened me a little.

He noticed my mood, I think, for he was not flippant and tiresome, but sympathetic—though we only referred to the most commonplace subjects. He remarked that I looked weary and pale. It does a woman good to have these little things noticed. It seemed quite like Edgar—as he used to be.

Mr. Everet said it was refreshing to find a natural, unaffected, candid woman in Washington. I do think it must seem a relief to men. If women did as Edgar wishes me to do, the men would be in a terrible plight. They would have to hate all the women in self-defence.

I couldn't help observing the interest Mr. Everet seems to feel in me—though I really should not have thought of it if Edgar had not suggested it. For a moment there was a certain fascination in the idea of making a strong, dignified man do just what a helpless insignificant little woman like me wants him to do.

As a sort of experiment, I made him go to Gladys Grayson's after the affair at the minister's although he had said that he had an important appointment at eleven, and that a great deal depended on his keeping it—but he went to the Graysons'. Of course, I didn't care a fig whether he went or not; only, as I say, it was a kind of experiment.

I'm frightfully tired, and here it is three o'clock and I still up.

Edgar will be at home on Friday, and this is Wednesday morning. I shall be glad to tell him again, how I scorn his proposition—I shall tell him that Mr. Everet noticed my pallor, and I think he will feel a little ashamed of himself. He ought to.