truth. She is, I should say, a girl of no imagination and, being
entirely artless, could not possibly have invented such a thing. At
last I found my voice, which sounded rather hollow. 'What a terrible
thing,' I said.

'Why terrible?' she inquired.

Poor, simple girl, with her primitive views of life, how little she
understood the delicate situation that had been created, or the
significance of the words she had just repeated to me.

'I detest the idea of inflicting pain even on an animal,' I replied,
'and if, as you say, Mr. Rawlings appeared to be suffering on my
account----'

''E was--agonies,' she put in.

'Well, is not the whole position dreadful? Mr. Rawlings is the last,
the very last man, Elizabeth, in the whole world that I should think of
in the way you mention.'

I could not repress a sigh as I spoke. How peculiar is the irony of
fate. Why should I deny (particularly in this, my diary, which
contains the outpourings of my soul) that I have often wished to win
the love of some good strong man who could protect me in the battle of
life and be willing, as it were, like the knights of old, to enter the
lists for my sake. This I could in no way imagine Mr. Rawlings doing.
My conception of the hero of my dreams may have varied from time to
time, but never has it included even the smallest of the
characteristics of William Rawlings. He reminds me of nothing so much