Ethel has come back to my old ladies. The dog and I were right about that man. Only been married six months, and he is tired of her, and has been brutal; and she must go through some legal business to be rid of him. What devils these men are to the weaker vessels! Tottie has gone off in appearance a good deal lately. Her spirit is broken. To see her crawl along a fence, you would think she was five years old. Her temper is soured too. There has come a blue French cat to the house next door but three. I introduced myself. She is young and attractive, and, thank Heaven, a lady of elegant extraction. Inclined to be extremely exclusive. Tell her she is right. Her name is “Sally B.” Pretty name. Has some English, but not much. Is teaching me French. Chic--very chic indeed. Had half a brickbat within two inches of me yesterday, next door but three. Her people are as exclusive as she is. Faint Persian never won fair French puss yet. Tottie growing quite impossible. Sorry, but had to speak. She fainted. You can only live your life once; therefore never let sentiment come between you and your ambitions. Sally B. says ours was a case of love at first sight. Very possibly. We are engaged, anyhow. Haven’t mentioned Tottie. * * * * * They are saying in the house that Ethel is going to die. If she does, they certainly ought to kill the fiend who is responsible for her misery. I’m sure I can feel for the poor girl. Sally B. has thrown me over for a lop-sided, yellow cat, with one eye and no tail--a paltry Manx thing that would disgrace Seven Dials. Oh yes, the beast can fight, I know; but I was dead out of training at the time. Not that I care. I might have known what to expect from a French cat. There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. * * * * * Shall give up keeping a diary. The thing only makes people laugh at you after you are gone. Besides, you often think of things you can’t even say to yourself, let alone write in a book. * * * * * Resume my diary after several years. I’ve felt very seedy lately and been getting worse every day for a year. Shabby and old. Don’t create any sensation as of yore. Vet comes to see me, and the case evidently interests him a good deal. He says a pinch of arsenic is the only thing for me, and my old ladies both begin to cry. I suppose it’s expensive. Still, as this is the only cure the man can suggest, they are bound in decency to allow me to have it. They agree to the vet’s proposal, though reluctantly. Disgusting to see meanness at such a time. However, it’s all right: I’m to have the arsenic to-morrow. INOCULATION DAY