“Yes, I am tired,” I tried to say in a natural voice, but the end word shook a little, and Lord Robert was just behind, having run up the stairs after me, so I fear he must have heard. “Miss Travers--please--” he implored, but I walked on up the next flight, and Lady Ver put her hand on his arm, and drew him down with her, and as I got up to the fourth floor I heard the front door shut. And now they are gone, and I am alone. My tiny room is comfortable, and the fire is burning brightly. I have a big armchair and books, and this, my journal, and all is cosy--only I feel so miserable. I won’t cry and be a silly coward. Why, of course it is amusing to be free. And I am _not_ grieving over Mrs. Carruthers’ death--only perhaps I am lonely, and I wish I were at the theatre. No, I don’t--I--oh, the thing I do wish is that--that--_No_, I won’t write it even. Good-night, Journal! 300, PARK STREET, _Wednesday November 23rd._ OH! how silly to want the moon! but that is evidently what is the matter with me. Here I am in a comfortable house with a kind hostess, and no immediate want of money, and yet I am restless, and sometimes unhappy. For the four days since I arrived Lady Ver has been so kind to me, taken the greatest pains to try and amuse me, and cheer me up. We have driven about in her electric brougham and shopped, and agreeable people have been to lunch each day, and I have had what I suppose is a _succès_. At least she says so. I am beginning to understand things better, and it seems one must have no real feelings, just as Mrs. Carruthers always told me, if one wants to enjoy life. On two evenings Lady Ver has been out with numbers of regrets at leaving me behind, and I have gathered she has seen Lord Robert, but he has not been here--I am glad to say. I am real friends with the angels, who are delightful people, and very well brought up. Lady Ver evidently knows much better about it than Mary Mackintosh, although she does not talk in that way. I can’t think what I am going to do next. I suppose soon this kind of drifting will seem quite natural, but at present the position galls me for some reason. I _hate_ to think people are being kind out of charity. How very foolish of me, though! Lady Merrenden is coming to lunch to-morrow. I am interested to see her, because Lord Robert said she was such a dear. I wonder what has become of him, that he has not been here--I wonder. No, I am _too_ silly. Lady Ver does not get up to breakfast, and I go into her room, and have mine on another little tray, and we talk, and she reads me bits out of her letters. She seems to have a number of people in love with her--that must be nice. “It keeps Charlie always devoted,” she said, “because he realizes he owns what the other men want.”