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Apart from his appearance, I really liked him very much. He is a gentlemanly little fellow–his head reaches about to my shoulder–cultured and travelled, and can talk splendidly, which Jack never could.

He took me into dinner at Mrs. Brompton’s, and was very attentive. You may imagine how many angelic glances I received from the other candidates for his favour.

Since then I have been having the gayest time imaginable. Dances, dinners, luncheons, afternoon teas, “functions” to no end, and all delightful.

Aunt Elizabeth writes to me, but I have never heard a word from Jack. He seems to have forgotten my existence completely. No doubt he has consoled himself with Mary Carter.

Well, that is all for the best, but I must say I did not think Jack could have forgotten me so soon or so absolutely. Of course it does not make the least difference to me.

The Sinclairs and the Bromptons and the Curries are to dine here tonight. I can see myself reflected in the long mirror before me, and I really think my appearance will satisfy even Gus Sinclair’s critical eye. I am pale, as usual, I never have any colour. That used to be one of Jack’s grievances. He likes pink and white milkmaidish girls. My “magnificent pallor” didn’t suit him at all.

But, what is more to the purpose, it suits Gus Sinclair. He admires the statuesque style.

* * * * *

Montreal, Jan. 20, 18–.

Here it is a whole month since my last entry. I am sitting here decked out in “gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls” for Mrs. Currie’s dance. These few minutes, after I emerge from the hands of my maid and before the carriage is announced, are almost the only ones I ever have to myself.

I am having a good time still. Somehow, though, it isn’t as exciting as it used to be. I’m afraid I’m very changeable. I believe I must be homesick.

I’d love to get a glimpse of dear old Thrush Hill and Aunt Elizabeth, and J–but, no! I will not write that.

Mr. Sinclair has not spoken yet, but there is no doubt that he soon will. Of course, I shall accept him when he does, and I coolly told Alicia so when she just as coolly asked me what I meant to do.

“Certainly, I shall marry him,” I said crossly, for the subject always irritates me. “Haven’t I been laying myself out all winter to catch him? That is the bold, naked truth, and ugly enough it is. My dearly beloved sister, I mean to accept Mr. Sinclair, without any hesitation, whenever I get the chance.”

“I give you credit for more sense than to dream of doing anything else,” said Alicia in relieved tones. “Katherine, you are a very lucky girl.”

“Because I am going to marry a rich man for his money?” I said coldly.

Sometimes I get snippy with Alicia these days.

“No,” said my half-sister in an exasperated way. “Why will you persist in speaking in that way? You are very provoking. It is not likely I would wish to see you throw yourself away on a poor man, and I’m sure you must like Gus.”

“Oh, yes, I like him well enough,” I said listlessly. “To be sure, I did think once, in my salad days, that liking wasn’t quite all in an affair of this kind. I was absurd enough to imagine that love had something to do with it.”

“Don’t talk so nonsensically,” said Alicia sharply. “Love! Well, of course, you ought to love your husband, and you will. He loves you enough, at all events.”

“Alicia,” I said earnestly, looking her straight in the face and speaking bluntly enough to have satisfied even Jack’s love of straightforwardness, “you married for money and position, so people say. Are you happy?”

For the first time that I remembered, Alicia blushed. She was very angry.

“Yes, I did marry for money,” she said sharply, “and I don’t regret it. Thank heaven, I never was a fool.”