She was really wondering what Arthur Venning would say she was.  Her feeling about him was decidedly queer.  She would not admit to herself that she was in love with him or that she wanted to marry him, yet she spent every minute when she was alone in wondering what he thought of her, and in comparing what they had done to-day with what they had done the day before.

“He didn’t ask me to play, but he certainly followed me into the hall,” she meditated, summing up the evening.  She was thirty years of age, and owing to the number of her sisters and the seclusion of life in a country parsonage had as yet had no proposal of marriage.  The hour of confidences was often a sad one, and she had been known to jump into bed, treating her hair unkindly, feeling herself overlooked by life in comparison with others.  She was a big, well-made woman, the red lying upon her cheeks in patches that were too well defined, but her serious anxiety gave her a kind of beauty.

She was just about to pull back the bed-clothes when she exclaimed, “Oh, but I’m forgetting,” and went to her writing-table.  A brown volume lay there stamped with the figure of the year.  She proceeded to write in the square ugly hand of a mature child, as she wrote daily year after year, keeping the diaries, though she seldom looked at them.

“A.M.—­Talked to Mrs. H. Elliot about country neighbours.  She knows the Manns; also the Selby-Carroways.  How small the world is!  Like her.  Read a chapter of Miss Appleby’s Adventure to Aunt E. P.M.—­Played lawn-tennis with Mr. Perrott and Evelyn M. Don’t like Mr. P. Have a feeling that he is not ‘quite,’ though clever certainly.  Beat them.  Day splendid, view wonderful.  One gets used to no trees, though much too bare at first.  Cards after dinner.  Aunt E. cheerful, though twingy, she says.  Mem.:  ask about damp sheets.”

She knelt in prayer, and then lay down in bed, tucking the blankets comfortably about her, and in a few minutes her breathing showed that she was asleep.  With its profoundly peaceful sighs and hesitations it resembled that of a cow standing up to its knees all night through in the long grass.

A glance into the next room revealed little more than a nose, prominent above the sheets.  Growing accustomed to the darkness, for the windows were open and showed grey squares with splinters of starlight, one could distinguish a lean form, terribly like the body of a dead person, the body indeed of William Pepper, asleep too.  Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight—­here were three Portuguese men of business, asleep presumably, since a snore came with the regularity of a great ticking clock.  Thirty-nine was a corner room, at the end of the passage, but late though it was—­“One” struck gently downstairs—­a line of light under the door showed that some one was still awake.

“How late you are, Hugh!” a woman, lying in bed, said in a peevish but solicitous voice.  Her husband was brushing his teeth, and for some moments did not answer.