_August 5._ I am homesick to-night and tired. It is ten-thirty, and, I have just gotten dinner. I forgot all about it before. The story is moving swiftly. It is nearly finished now, moreover it is good; I know it. I sent a big roll of manuscript to him to-day. He is at the coast, and polishes the rough draft as fast as I send it in. He tells me he has secured a publisher, and that the book will be out in a few months. I can hardly wait to finish, for then I, too, can leave town. I will not go before; I have work to do, and can do it better here. He tells me he has seen her several times. God! a man who writes novels and can mention her incidentally, as though speaking of a dinner-party! _August 30._ I finished to-day and expressed him the last scrap of copy. I wanted to sing, I was so happy. Then I bethought me, it is her birthday. I went down town and picked out a stone that pleased me. Their messenger will deliver it, and she can choose her own setting. How I'd like to carry it myself, but I have a little more work to do before I go. Only two more days, and then-- I have been counting the time since she left: almost two months; it seems incredible when I think of it. How I have worked! Next time I write, my journal confessor, I will have something to tell: I will have seen her--she who wears my ring.... Ah! here comes my man for orders. A few of my bachelor friends help me celebrate here to-night. I have not told them it is the last time. _September 5._ Let me think; I am confused. This hotel is vile, abominable, but there is no other. That cursed odor of stale tobacco, and of cookery! The landlord says they were here yesterday and went West. It's easy to trace them--everybody notices. A tall man, dark, with a firm jaw; the most beautiful woman they have ever seen--they all say the same. My God! and I'm hung up here, inactive a whole day! But I'll find them, they can't escape; and then they'll laugh at me, probably. What can I do? I don't know. I can't think. I must find them first ... that cursed odor again! Oh, what a child, a worse than fool I have been! To sit there in town pouring the best work of my life into his hands! I must have that book, I will have it. To think how I trusted her--waited until my hair began to turn--for this! But I must stop. This is useless, it's madness.