January 19th.  The paper says that Adrian’s Play is going to close the end of next week.  No busness.  How can I endure to know that he is sufering, and that I cannot help, even to the extent of buying one ticket?  Matinee today, and no money.  Father still away.

I have tried to do a kind Deed today, feeling that perhaps it would soften mother’s heart and she would advance my Allowence.  I offered to manacure her nails for her, but she refused, saying that as Hannah had done it for many years, she guessed she could manage now.

January 20th.  Today I did a desparate thing, dear Dairy.

“The desparatest is the wisest course.”  Butler.

It is Sunday.  I went to Church, and thought things over.  What a wonderfull thing it would be if I could save the play!  Why should I feel that my Sex is a handycap?

The recter preached on “The Opportunaties of Women.”  The Sermon gave me courage to go on.  When he said, “Women today step in where men are afraid to tred, and bring success out of failure,” I felt that it was meant for me.

Had no money for the Plate, and mother atempted to smugle a half dollar to me.  I refused, however, as if I cannot give my own money to the Heathen, I will give none.  Mother turned pale, and the man with the plate gave me a black look.  What can he know of my reasons?

Beresford lunched with us, and as I discouraged him entirely, he was very atentive to Sis.  Mother is planing a big Wedding, and I found Sis in the store room yesterday looking up mother’s wedding veil.

No old stuff for me.

I guess Beresford is trying to forget that he kissed my hand the other night, for he called me “Little Miss Barbara” today, meaning little in the sense of young.  I gave him a stern glanse.

“I am not any littler than the other night,” I observed.

“That was merely an afectionate diminutive,” he said, looking uncomfortable.

“If you don’t mind,” I said coldly, “you might do as you have hertofore—­reserve your afectionate advances until we are alone.”

“Barbara!” mother said.  And began quickly to talk about a Lady Somthing or other we’d met on a train in Switzerland.  Because—­they can talk until they are black in the face, dear Dairy, but it is true we do not know any of the British Nobilaty, except the aforementioned and the man who comes once a year with flavering extracts, who says he is the third son of a Barronet.

Every one being out this afternoon, I suddenly had an inspiration, and sent for Carter Brooks.  I then put my hair up and put on my blue silk, because while I do not beleive in Woman using her femanine charm when talking busness, I do beleive that she should look her best under any and all circumstances.

He was rather surprized not to find Sis in, as I had used her name in telephoning.

“I did it,” I explained, “because I knew that you felt no interest in me, and I had to see you.”