I rang for Véronique, and put on my new black afternoon frock, which had just been unpacked. I tucked in the violets in a careless way. Saw that my hair was curling as vigorously as usual, and not too rebelliously for a demure appearance, and so, at exactly the right moment, began to descend the stairs. There was Mr. Carruthers in the hall. A horribly nice-looking, tall man, with a clean-shaven face, and features cut out of stone. A square chin, with a nasty twinkle in the corner of his eye. He has a very distinguished look, and that air of never having had to worry for his things to fit, they appear as if they had grown on him. He has a cold, reserved manner, and something commanding and arrogant in it, which makes one want to contradict him at once, but his voice is charming. One of that cultivated, refined kind, that sounds as if he spoke a number of languages, and so does not slur his words. I believe this is diplomatic, for some of the old ambassador people had this sort of voice. He was standing with his back to the fire, and the light of the big window with the sun getting low was full on his face, so I had a good look at him. I said in the beginning that there was no use pretending when one is writing one’s own thoughts for one’s own self to read when one is old, and keeping them in a locked-up journal, so I shall always tell the truth here--quite different things to what I should say if I were talking to someone, and describing to them this scene. Then I should say I found him utterly unattractive, and in fact, I hardly noticed him! As it was, I noticed him very much, and I have a tiresome inward conviction that he could be very attractive indeed, if he liked. He looked up, and I came forward with my best demure air, as Mr. Barton nervously introduced us, and we shook hands. I left him to speak first. “Abominably cold day,” he said, carelessly. That was English and promising! “Yes, indeed,” I said. “You have just arrived?” And so we continued in this banal way, with Mr. Barton twirling his thumbs, and hoping, one could see, that we should soon come to the business of the day; interposing a remark here and there, which added to the _gêne_ of the situation. At last Mr. Carruthers said to Mr. Barton that he would go round and see the house; and I said tea would be ready when they got back. And so they started. My cheeks would burn, and my hands were so cold, it was awkward and annoying, not half the simple affair I had thought it would be upstairs. When it was quite dark, and the lamps were brought, they came back to the hall, and Mr. Barton, saying he did not want any tea, left us to find papers in the library.