I could bare no more. Heedless of Jane's protests and anguish, I got up and went out, into the light of day. My body was bent with misery. Because at last I knew that, like mother and all the rest, he too, did not understand me and never would! To him I was but material, the stuff that plays are made of!= ```And now we know that he never could know, ```And did not understand. ```Kipling.= Ignoring Jane's observation that the tickets had cost two dollars each, I gathered up the scattered skeins of my life together, and fled. CHAPTER III. HER DIARY: BEING THE DAILY JOURNAL OF THE SUB-DEB JANUARY 1st. I have today received this diary from home, having come back a few days early to make up a French condition. Weather, clear and cold. New Year's dinner. Roast chicken (Turkey being very expensive), mashed turnips, sweet potatoes and mince pie. It is my intention to record in this book the details of my Daily Life, my thoughts which are to sacred for utterance, and my ambitions. Because who is there to whom I can speak them? I am surrounded by those who exist for the mere pleasures of the day, or whose lives are bound up in recitations. For instance, at dinner today, being mostly faculty and a few girls who live in the far West, the conversation was entirely on buying a phonograph for dancing because the music teacher has the measles and is quarantined in the infirmary. And on Miss Everett's cousin, who has written a play. When one looks at Miss Everett, one recognizes that no cousin of hers could write a play. New Year's resolution--to help someone every day. Today helped Mademoiselle to put on her rubbers. JANUARY 2ND. Today I wrote my French theme, beginning, "Les hommes songent moins a leur ame qua leur corps." Mademoiselle sent for me and objected, saying that it was not a theme for a young girl, and that I must write a new one, on the subject of pears. How is one to develop in this atmosphere? Some of the girls are coming back. They straggle in, and put the favors they got at cotillions on the dresser, and their holiday gifts, and each one relates some amorous experience while at home. Dear Diary, is there something wrong with me, that love has passed me by? I have had offers of devotion but none that appealed to me, being mostly either too young or not attracting me by physical charm. I am not cold, although frequently accused of it, Beneath my frigid exterior beats a warm heart. I intend to be honest in this diary, and so I admit it. But, except for passing fancies--one being, alas, for a married man--I remain without the divine passion.