at a loss what to say for myself, and I looked round. The person
was a young gentleman.

He wore a beautiful blue frock-coat, buttoned up. I like a
frock-coat to be buttoned up. He had light-colored trousers and
gray gloves and a pretty cane. I like light-colored trousers and
gray gloves and a pretty cane. What color his eyes were is more
than I can say; I only know they made me hot when they looked
at me. Not that I mind being made hot; it is surely better than
being made cold. He and Mrs. Staveley shook hands.

They seemed to be old friends. I wished I had been an old
friend--not for any bad reason, I hope. I only wanted to shake
hands, too. What Mrs. Staveley said to him escaped me, somehow.
I think the picture escaped me also; I don't remember noticing
anything except the young gentleman, especially when he took off
his hat to me. He looked at me twice before he went away. I got
hot again. I said to Mrs. Staveley: "Who is he?"

She laughed at me. I said again: "Who is he?" She said: "He is
young Mr. Dunboyne." I said: "Does he live in London?" She
laughed again. I said again: "Does he live in London?" She said:
"He is here for a holiday; he lives with his father at Fairmount,
in Ireland."

Young Mr. Dunboyne--here for a holiday--lives with his father
at Fairmount, in Ireland. I have said that to myself fifty times
over. And here it is, saying itself for the fifty-first time in
my Journal. I must indeed be a simpleton, as Helena says. I had
better go to bed again.