ings of
that sort. His two portmanteaus are at this moment crossing the landing
on the way to his room. I wonder if I ought to go down.

A little later.--I have seen him! It was not at all in the way that I
intended to encounter him, and I am vexed. Just after his portmanteaus
were brought up I went out from my room to descend, when, at the moment
of stepping towards the first stair, my eyes were caught by an object in
the hall below, and I paused for an instant, till I saw that it was a
bundle of canvas and sticks, composing a sketching tent and easel. At
the same nick of time the drawing-room door opened and the affianced pair
came out. They were saying they would go into the garden; and he waited
a moment while she put on her hat. My idea was to let them pass on
without seeing me, since they seemed not to want my company, but I had
got too far on the landing to retreat; he looked up, and stood staring at
me--engrossed to a dream-like fixity. Thereupon I, too, instead of
advancing as I ought to have done, stood moonstruck and awkward, and
before I could gather my weak senses sufficiently to descend, she had
called him, and they went out by the garden door together. I then
thought of following them, but have changed my mind, and come here to jot
down these few lines. It is all I am fit for . . .

He is even more handsome than I expected. I was right in feeling he must
have an attraction beyond that of form: it appeared even in that
momentary glance. How happy Caroline ought to be. But I must, of
course, go down to be ready with tea in the drawing-room by the time they
come indoors.

11 p.m.--I have made the acquaintance of M. de la Feste; and I seem to be
another woman from the effect of it. I cannot describe why this should
be so, but conversation with him seems to expand the view, and open the
heart, and raise one as upon stilts to wider prospects. He has a good
intellectual forehead, perfect eyebrows, dark hair and eyes, an animated
manner, and a persuasive voice. His voice is soft in quality--too soft
for a man, perhaps; and yet on second thoughts I would not have it less
so. We have been talking of his art: I had no notion that art demanded
such sacrifices or such tender devotion; or that there were two roads for
choice within its precincts, the road of vulgar money-making, and the
road of high aims and consequent inappreciation for many long years by
the public. That he has adopted the latter