perhaps, and then I should be properly wretched for the rest of my life,—if I didn't murder her or she me before the honeymoon was over. Well, the original expression holds all right, even then. I wouldn't much mind her murdering me, if I was only sure she'd be hanged afterwards. I have thoughts of proposing to Connie. She is a sweet little cocotte, only wanting development. But it would be better fun to marry Isabel, and see what could be done in the way of ruffling her "grave sweetness" a little.—I'll stop here.'
My feeling towards the book was, at the end, nothing short of positive loathing. Strachan, I think, perceived this; for he did all he could to lighten my share of the work. And I accepted his doing so without remark. I remember his asking me one morning if I hadn't been a little out of sorts of late, and my answering that my bowels were not as they used to be, and that I feared I had trichinosis. I don't know what he thought of my answer. He said nothing.
Late on in June is the next entry in the Journal.
'Last night,—
'Something making me come back quickly from
the corner of the street, I found that she had not
opened the door with her key yet; or even taken the
key out of her pocket; but was standing watching me
seriously. I took off my hat, and stepped close to her
with it in my hand. The moon was shining clear.
'Neither of us spoke. We looked into one another's eyes.
'At last:
'" What made you such a serious Rosebud to-night?' I said.
'She sighed softly:
'" … I don't know.…"
'"Good-night, Rosy."
'"Good-night."
'"Good-night?" turning, I repeated to myself, and put on my hat, and strode away.…
'Round the corner, I drew a breath of relief.—That was temptation.
'I will not see that child again.'
