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 that makes one want to
contradict him at once; but his voice is charming--one of that cultivated,
refined kind, which 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
some one 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