If I committed follies last night, so much the better.

I struggle no longer against the inevitable, when the inevitable is the crown and joy of earthly things.

For in sober truth I love her infinitely.
October 6th.
She comes back to-morrow.

Antoinette and I have been devising a welcome.
The good soul has filled the house with flowers, and, usurping Stenson's functions, has polished furniture and book backs and silver and has hung fresh blinds and scrubbed and scoured until I am afraid to walk about or sit down lest I should tarnish the spotless brightness of my surroundings.
"You have forgotten one thing, Antoinette," I remarked, satirically.
"You have omitted to strew the front steps with rose-leaves." "I would cover them with my body for the dear angel to walk upon as she entered," said Antoinette.
"That would scarcely be rose-leaves," I murmured.
Antoinette laughed.

"And Monsieur then! He is just as bad.