ally like returning to one's
home. As for Traveler, I must interfere (in the interests of his figure
and his health) to prevent everybody in the house from feeding him with
every eatable thing, from plain bread to _pate de foie gras._

My experience of to-day will, as Stella tells me, be my general
experience of the family life at St. Germain.

We begin the morning with the customary cup of coffee. At eleven
o'clock I am summoned from my "pavilion" of three rooms to one of those
delicious and artfully varied breakfasts which are only to be found in
France and in Scotland. An interval of about three hours follows, during
which the child takes his airing and his siesta, and his elders occupy
themselves as they please. At three o'clock we all go out--with a pony
chaise which carries the weaker members of the household--for a ramble
in the forest. At six o'clock we assemble at the dinner-table. At coffee
time, some of the neighbors drop in for a game at cards. At ten, we all
wish each other good-night.

Such is the domestic programme, varied by excursions in the country
and by occasional visits to Paris. I am naturally a man of quiet
stay-at-home habits. It is only when my mind is disturbed that I get
restless and feel longings for change. Surely the quiet routine at St.
Germain ought to be welcome to me now? I have been looking forward to
this life through a long year of travel. What more can I wish for?

Nothing more, of course.

And yet--and yet--Stella has innocently made it harder than ever to play
the part of her "brother." The recovery of her beauty is a subject for
congratulation to her mother and her friends. How does it affect Me?

I had better not think of my hard fate. Can I help thinking of it? Can I
dismiss from memory the unmerited misfortunes which have taken from me,
in the prime of her charms, the woman whom I love? At least I can try.

The good old moral must be _my_ moral: "Be content with such things as
ye have."

March 15.--It is eight in the morning--and I hardly know how to employ
myself. Having finished my coffee, I have just looked again at my diary.

It strikes me that I am falling into a bad habit of writing too much
about myself. The custom of keeping a journal certainly has this
drawback--it encourages egotism. Well, the remedy is easy. From this
date, I lock up my book--only to open it again when some event has
happened which has a claim to be recorded for its own sake. As for
myself