writing: sloping, not very legible; nothing much out of the ordinary. I should like to press it to my lips, which would be a piece of highly unjustifiable sentimentalism.
Greatly as I want to go home, and—like a child—have "a good cry" all by myself, I stay on there for some time. Obojanski offers me several books, dealing mostly with matters zoölogical. I of course try to excuse myself as best I can. At last, he lectures me on the way I am wasting my talents, and says that my mind, "if deprived of intellectual nourishment, will pine away."
"But, Professor," I point out, not without a touch of pride, "I really am not at all naturally fitted to be a woman of scientific attainments."
"Ah, but have a little faith in yourself; you ought to. Truly, science is your exclusive vocation; but you must work; you need to work a good deal. With your abilities …"
I go home, taking the books with me. My room is dark and dreary and solitary. I am most bitterly disappointed.
I have done a silly thing to-day.
A girl named Nierwiska works in the office