in store for me. Without intending it, I am sure, he did what
no other young man has ever done--he made me feel confused.
Instead of looking at him, I sat with my head down, and listened
to his talk. His voice--this is high praise--reminded me
of papa's voice. It seemed to persuade me as papa persuades
his congregation. I felt quite at ease again. When he went away,
we shook hands. He gave my hand a little squeeze. I gave him back
the squeeze--without knowing why. When he was gone, I wished
I had not done it--without knowing why, either.

I heard his Christian name for the first time to-day. Mrs.
Staveley said to me: "We are going to have a dinner-party. Shall
I ask Philip Dunboyne?" I said to Mrs. Staveley: "Oh, do!"

She is an old woman; her eyes are dim. At times, she can look
mischievous. She looked at me mischievously now. I wished I had
not been so eager to have Mr. Dunboyne asked to dinner.

A fear has come to me that I may have degraded myself. My spirits
are depressed. This, as papa tells us in his sermons, is a
miserable world. I am sorry I accepted the Staveleys' invitation.
I am sorry I went to see the pictures. When that young man comes
to dinner, I shall say I have got a headache, and shall stop
upstairs by myself. I don't think I like his Christian name.
I hate London. I hate everybody.

What I wrote up above, yesterday, is nonsense. I think his
Christian name is perfect. I like London. I love everybody.

He came to dinner to-day. I sat next to him. How beautiful a