--P.]
_August_ 31st.--A telegram for me at breakfast-time. I am too happy to
keep my hand steady--I am writing horribly. It doesn't matter: nothing
matters but my telegram. (Oh, what a noble creature the man was who
invented telegrams!) Oscar is on his way to Ramsgate!
CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD
Lucilla's Journal, continued
_September_ 1st.
I AM composed enough to return to my Journal, and to let my mind dwell a
little on all that I have thought and felt since Oscar has been here.
Now that I have lost Madame Pratolungo, I have no friend with whom I can
talk over my little secrets. My aunt is all that is kind and good to me;
but with a person so much older than I am--who has lived in such a
different world from my world, and whose ideas seem to be so far away
from mine--how can I talk about my follies and extravagances, and expect
sympathy in return! My one confidential friend is my Journal--I can only
talk about myself to myself, in these pages. My position feels sometimes
like a very lonely one. I saw two girls telling all their secrets to each
other on the sands to-day--and I am afraid I envied them.
Well, my dear Journal, how did I feel--after longing for Oscar--when
Oscar came to me? It is dreadful to own it; but my book locks up, and my
book can be trusted with the truth. I felt ready to cry--I was so
unexpectedly, so horribly, disappointed.
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