She did not trouble to ask anything more... Just looked at me for a moment. I made up my mind that her visit must be cut short; if I had met Colonel Butler, _she_ might. And I have no doubt of any kind that she would do what she threatens and _ask_ him to marry her. And he wouldn't refuse. Moreover, I am not _made_ of money, as she and Will seemed to think... Brackenbury was a fool not to send her _right_ away, as I recommended. Nothing is decided; I sometimes wonder whether anything ever _will_ be decided. We are precisely where we stood before... I had time to warn Will, I am thankful to say. A girl who shilly-shallies like that... I shall make the best of it, if I have to; but I am not sure she is the sort of wife for my boy... VIII LADY ANN SPENWORTH REFERS TO HER DIARY _Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): It is only a question of habit. When I first went to Italy, at the age of sixteen, my dear mother insisted that I should keep a diary, and I have kept one ever since. Goodness me, I am more likely to overlook my letters or the morning paper than forget to write up my journal. Sometimes it is only a few lines, for the spacious days are over, I am a dull old woman, and the most I ask of life is that I may be allowed to live. Very often I let months go by without turning back to see what I have written; but the record is there if I ever want to consult it. Usually at the end of the year one likes to take stock... Not that it is very cheerful reading, alas! But at our age we must expect that. Another year gone, when perhaps we cannot hope to see so very many more; another hope dashed and yet another deferred, making the heart sick; gaps in the circle of those one loves; increasing frailty or ill-health; and that indefinable, inexplicable narrowing of outlook, interest, enthusiasm--and with us, I am afraid, of worldly circumstance. Inevitable... For oneself, perhaps, one does not mind it, but it is sometimes heart-rending to see the boys and girls setting out with those high hopes that we have been compelled, one by one, to discard; heart-rending, too, when those who seemed to walk with their heads on a level with the stars trip and sprawl like the rest...