in the play, to whom he says the above raptureous words.

Coming home from the theater tonight, still dazed with the revelation of
what I am capable of, once aroused, I asked Miss Everett if her couzin
had said anything about Mr. Egleston being in love with the Leading
Character. She observed:

"No. But he may be. She is very pretty."

"Possably," I remarked. "But I should like to see her in the morning,
when she gets up."

All the girls were perfectly mad about Mr. Egleston, although pretending
merely to admire his Art. But I am being honest, as I agreed at the
start, and now I know, as I sit here with the soft, although chilly
breeses of the night blowing on my hot brow, now I know that this thing
that has come to me is Love. Morover, it is the Love of my Life. He will
never know it, but I am his. He is exactly my Ideal, strong and tall and
passionate. And clever, to. He said some awfuly clever things.

I beleive that he saw me. He looked in my direction. But what does it
matter? I am small, insignifacant. He probably thinks me a mere child,
although seventeen.

What matters, oh Dairy, is that I am at last in Love. It is hopeless.
Just now, when I had written that word, I buried my face in my hands.
There is no hope. None. I shall never see him again. He passed out of my
life on the 11:45 train. But I love him. MON DIEU, how I love him!