I ate a sausage.

What, Dear Dairy, was there to say?

"To disobey!" she went on. "To force yourself on the atention of Mr.
Beresford, in a borowed dress, with your eyelashes blackend and your
face painted----"

"I should think, mother," I observed, "that if he wants to marry into
this family, and is not merely being dragged into it, that he ought to
see the worst at the start." She glired, without speaking. "You know," I
continued, "it would be a dreadfull thing to have the Ceramony performed
and everything to late to back out, and then have ME Sprung on him. It
wouldn't be honest, would it?"

"Barbara!" she said in a terrable tone. "First disobedience, and now
sarcasm. If your father was only here! I feel so alone and helpless."

Her tone cut me to the Heart. After all she was my own mother, or at
least maintained so, in spite of numerous questions enjendered by our
lack of resemblence, moral as well as physicle. But I did not offer
to embrase her, as she was at that moment poring out her tea. I hid my
misery behind the morning paper, and there I beheld the fated vision.
Had I felt any doubt as to the state of my afections it was settled
then. My Heart leaped in my bosom. My face sufused. My hands trembled so
that a piece of sausage slipped from my fork. HIS PICTURE LOOKED OUT AT
ME WITH THAT WELL REMEMBERED GAZE FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE MORNING PAPER.

Oh, Adrian, Adrian!