But this afternoon (whether a little damp, with a soft patter of sweet rain on the trees and the bushes) I had a rather bad bout, at which Martin’s face looked grave, until I laughed and said: 

“It’s nothing!  I’ve had this sort of cough every summer since I was born—­haven’t I, Father Dan?”

“Ye-es.”

I shall have to remember that in my next confession, but what Father Dan is to do I really don’t know.

* * * * *

JULY 21.  I have been rather down to-day about a newspaper that came to me anonymously from Paris, with a report marked for my special delectation.

“FASHIONABLE MARRIAGE OF AN ENGLISH PEER AND AN AMERICAN HEIRESS.”

My husband’s and Alma’s!  It took place at the American Embassy, and was attended by great numbers of smart people.  There was a long account of the grandeur of the bride’s dress and of the splendour of the bridegroom’s presents.  They have taken an apartment on the Champs Elysees and will spend most of the year in Paris.

Ah well, why should I trouble about a matter that so little concerns me?  Alma is still beautiful; she will be surrounded by admirers; her salon will be frequented by the fashionable parasites of Europe and America.

As for my husband, the straw-fire of his wife’s passion for him will soon burn out, especially now that she has gained what she wanted—­his name, his title.

* * * * *

Martin carried me upstairs to bed to-night.  I was really feeling weaker than usual, but we made a great game of it.  Nurse went first, behind a mountain of pillows; Martin and I came next, with his arms about my body and mine around his neck; and Dr. O’Sullivan last, carrying two tall brass candlesticks.

How we laughed!  We all laughed together, as if trying to see which of us could laugh the loudest.  Only Christian Ann looked serious, standing at the bottom of the stairs, nursing baby in her nightdress.

It is three o’clock in the morning as I write, and I can hear our laughter still—­only it sounds like sobbing now.

* * * * *

JULY 22.  Have heard something to-day that has taken all the warmth of life out of me.  It is about my father, whom the old doctor still attends.  Having been told of my husband’s marriage he has announced his intention of claiming my child if anything happens to me!

What his object may be I do not know.  He cannot be thinking of establishing a claim to my husband’s title—­Isabel being a girl.  Remembering something his lawyer said about the marriage settlement when I consulted him on the subject of divorce, I can only assume that (now he is poor) he is trying to recover the inheritance he settled on my husband.

It frightens me—­raising my old nightmare of a lawsuit about the legitimacy of my child.  I want to speak to Martin about it.  Yet how can I do so without telling him the truth which I have been struggling so hard to conceal?