Graysmill, August 7th.

Dearest, I wrote you such a stern letter the other day, that I feel I must write again before the week comes round.  It was, after all, a silly promise we made each other to write just once a week, neither more nor less.  This time I write at odds with myself.  It’s all very well to talk about sincerity, it baffles one completely at times; there isn’t a greater liar under the sun at this moment than Emilia Fletcher.  My outward life is all out of tune with my inward self.  Perhaps if you saw me with my old ladies, you would say:  “Quite right; please them by all means, sit with them, drive with them, make small talk, listen to their little tales.  It pleases them, and it doesn’t harm you.”  But I answer:  Is it right?  Is it not rank hypocrisy?  Is affection won by false pretences worth the having?  I tell you, I am playing a part all day long.  I read to them out of books that I either despise or abhor; I play to them music unworthy of the name; I nod my head in acquiescence when my very soul cries no.  Nor is that all; I take my place each morning in the centre of the room, open the Bible, and in pious voice, I, Infidel, read forth the prayers that are to strengthen the household through the day.  When, at a given point, all the maid-servants rise, whirl round in their calico gowns and turn their demure backs to me as they kneel in a row, I know not whether to laugh or cry.  O Constance, it is infamous of me!  And why do I do it?  Out of consideration for them? out of kind-heartedness?  Not a bit of it!  Vanity, my dear; sheer vanity.  If they cared for me less, if I did not feel that they almost worship me, holding out their old hands to me for all the pleasure that their day still may bring, would I do it?  No; for then I should not care, as I feel I do now, to keep their good opinion, even at the expense of making myself appear better, according to their lights, than I really am.  I am a worm; I never thought I could sink so low.  It was so easy to live in tune with Truth beside my mother; but she was Truth’s high-priestess; she never swerved from the straight path.

I went to church last Sunday; there’s a confession!  Another such act of cowardice, and I am lost.  It never entered my head, of course, to go the first Sunday I was here; and as it so happened that I had a headache that day, no comment was made upon my absence.  But on Saturday the vicar said something about “to-morrow”; Uncle George invited himself to dinner after service; and when Aunt Caroline asked me, at breakfast on Sunday, what hat I was going to put on, I replied, “The small one,” and followed her like a lamb.  I don’t know what to do now.  This afternoon, the good little old lady asked me to call with her on a friend whose father died last week, and I went, Heaven knows why.  I was well served out.  There they sat a mortal hour, blowing their noses and praising their God, until I could have shrieked.  When I had safely seen Aunt Caroline home, I set off