Alice Sit-By-The-Fire
One would like to peep covertly into Amy's diary (octavo, with the word 'Amy' in gold letters wandering across the soft brown leather covers, as if it was a long word and, in Amy's opinion, rather a dear). To take such a liberty, and allow the reader to look over our shoulders, as they often invite you to do in novels (which, however, are much more coquettish things than plays) would be very helpful to us; we should learn at once what sort of girl Amy is, and why to-day finds her washing her hair. We should also get proof or otherwise, that we are interpreting her aright; for it is our desire not to record our feelings about Amy, but merely Amy's feelings about herself; not to tell what we think happened, but what Amy thought happened. The book, to be sure, is padlocked, but we happen to know where it is kept. (In the lower drawer of that hand-painted escritoire.) Sometimes in the night Amy, waking up, wonders whether she did lock her diary, and steals downstairs in white to make sure. On these occasions she undoubtedly lingers among the pages, re-reading the peculiarly delightful bit she wrote yesterday; so we could peep over her shoulder, while the reader peeps over ours. Then why don't we do it? Is it because this would be a form of eavesdropping, and that we cannot be sure our hands are clean enough to turn the pages of a young girl's thoughts? It cannot be that, because the novelists do it.
which shall be nameless. The young lady made no reply. She believed in
division of labour, and in former domestic affairs of this sort her
stern parent had invariably said what he pleased, while she contented
herself with merely doing what she pleased.
Proverbially, actions speak louder than words, and the present case
was no exception, for while the echo of her father's speech did not go
beyond the walls of the apartment they were in, her own rash
performance, which was a direct consequence of it, was a few days
later noised abroad through all Paris. This was an evening call at the
lodgings of Sir Peregrine Maitland. She came in unannounced, flushed,
eager, defiant, lovely, letting fall the rich train of her robe, which
she had caught up in a swift flight through the streets, and throwing
off her enveloping cloak, which scattered a shower of sparkling drops
on brow and bosom, and beautiful bare arms, for a light shower had
fallen. "They would not let you come to me, so I have come to you,"
she declared with a daring little laugh. "I have run away from my
guests. There is a houseful of them and they tire me to death.
Everyone tires me to-night except you." The gentleman stood before her
speechless with bewilderment. "I believe," she said with a little
pout, like a spoiled child, "that you are not glad to see me."
"Glad to see you," he repeated, "dearest, yes! But not in this way, at
this time."
She turned aside, but the drops that glittered on her cheek now were
One would like to peep covertly into Amy's diary (octavo, with the word 'Amy' in gold letters wandering across the soft brown leather covers, as if it was a long word and, in Amy's opinion, rather a dear). To take such a liberty, and allow the reader to look over our shoulders, as they often invite you to do in novels (which, however, are much more coquettish things than plays) would be very helpful to us; we should learn at once what sort of girl Amy is, and why to-day finds her washing her hair. We should also get proof or otherwise, that we are interpreting her aright; for it is our desire not to record our feelings about Amy, but merely Amy's feelings about herself; not to tell what we think happened, but what Amy thought happened. The book, to be sure, is padlocked, but we happen to know where it is kept. (In the lower drawer of that hand-painted escritoire.) Sometimes in the night Amy, waking up, wonders whether she did lock her diary, and steals downstairs in white to make sure. On these occasions she undoubtedly lingers among the pages, re-reading the peculiarly delightful bit she wrote yesterday; so we could peep over her shoulder, while the reader peeps over ours. Then why don't we do it? Is it because this would be a form of eavesdropping, and that we cannot be sure our hands are clean enough to turn the pages of a young girl's thoughts? It cannot be that, because the novelists do it.