Mr. Lawrence put me in my carriage. As he closed the door he said,
"Your maid is not with you?"

I replied that I had none; on which he said to the driver, "Drive
slowly: I mean to walk as far as the hotel with the carriage."

"Won't you get in?" I cried from the window.

He seemed not to hear me, but started off at a rapid pace, and I gave
up the attempt, wondering at what seemed to me an eccentric choice. It
was unnecessary for him to go with me at all, but I thought, "He
has been, I suppose, brought up to think no woman can take care of
herself." He was ready to open the door as I got out, and I longed to
ask him why he had not driven with me; but I hesitated: something tied
my tongue, and in a moment he had said "Good-night," and was gone with
hasty steps into the darkness. I must stop, I am so tired.

_December_ 3. It seems to me I am growing to be a dreadful egotist.
I put nothing down now in this little book but just what concerns
myself--nothing of the great subjects of universal interest which
have always absorbed most of my thoughts, but just my own doings
and sayings. At this very moment I desire only to write about my
afternoon, and the way in which I spent it. I will indulge myself, and
the record may serve me. How it had snowed all day! how it did snow
this afternoon when I started out, wrapped in my waterproof, accoutred
to encounter the storm, and rejoicing in the absence of long skirts
and hooped petticoats! With my India-rubber boots I felt I could plod
through any snow-drift, and I gained a pervading sense of exhilaration
from the beating of the storm in my face. I chose a certain street I