this house, this room. Not for her to cut from or wallow in or even sniff at too deeply. Still, she was here till tomorrow, perhaps even Monday. If she used a drawer or two, she could hide that ugly valise under the bed until she needed it again.
She unpacked. Three or four minutes that took.
Now what?
None but clean fingers should ever touch even the margin of the paper. (Alas! that it is necessary to say this.)
—How to Become Expert in Type-writing
L illian Gilbey was no longer a committed diarist; diaries, she’d concluded, were the province of little girls and middle-aged men, and in any case, her life as a young lady who was Out provided far more riveting material than it did time to actually record or reflect upon it.
Therefore, her current diary, when it was filled, would be her last. It had been languishing since she’d left finishing school, and as much as Lillian Gilbey loved beginning projects, she abhorred languishing, incomplete ones. She conceived a plan to finish it off, dividing the blank pages by the two years until she planned to marry, with a dozen or so pages reserved at the end for wedding details. No more by thee my steps shall be, she would write her final night in her parents’ home, and thus would she close the literal covers of her girlhood.
Just now, however, she mentally composed a more prosaic notation for the half-completed volume. John Jones, she would write this evening, inattentive at the worst possible moments .
Here he idled, one foot propped on the balustrade that fronted Idensea’s Esplanade, his elbows at rest on the top rail. His gaze hadbeen fixed upon the gray sea and foreshore longer than the view really merited. Did he not realize here lay the opportunity he’d been awaiting the day through—her mother and sisters gone for another stroll down the pier, his final chance to be alone with her today? After all these months, did he not wish to say something to indicate his intentions toward her?
He’d been about to. At least, Lillian had thought so for a moment, and she’d dropped her eyes, as she believed she ought in such a situation, and reminded herself how far she would allow him to proceed. Not all the way to a proposal, certainly—there were too many diary pages yet to fill before that event could occur—but she needed some sort of something to help her decide whether his name should progress from Candidate to Contender.
She’d surprised herself the night she’d added his name to the Candidates, crossing off Patrick Markwell to make room in her list of ten. John Jones, she’d written, potential .
Not that you’d know it now, the way he was slouched over the railing, practically with his back to her, leaving her with nothing to do but twirl her parasol.
But then—
Then he looked over his shoulder and smiled at her, and she could not regret the lines through Patrick Markwell’s name. Lillian did not think John’s face very refined. It was too full and boyish for that, but when he smiled, it almost completely disguised the scar that made his eye droop and she could admit him good-looking, if somewhat raw. She scarcely registered what he was saying to her, something he’d noticed down on the shore.
She nodded as if she’d been joining him in his contemplation all along. For herself, even as a child, what she had found most remarkable in her seaside visits was how people lolled on the beach, quite as if they were home in their beds rather than in public. Idensea did not permit mixed bathing, and today’s weather gave the sea a foreboding appearance, so most of the bathing machines and their horses stood unused on the beach, but all along the shore, men and women cozied right alongside each other.
Lillian found it difficult not to stare. Because it was so vulgar. Many of them were only laboring types, come on cheap rail fares for Whitsuntide, so such unfortunate vulgarities must be expected. From them .
“They are having a fine time, aren’t
She unpacked. Three or four minutes that took.
Now what?
None but clean fingers should ever touch even the margin of the paper. (Alas! that it is necessary to say this.)
—How to Become Expert in Type-writing
L illian Gilbey was no longer a committed diarist; diaries, she’d concluded, were the province of little girls and middle-aged men, and in any case, her life as a young lady who was Out provided far more riveting material than it did time to actually record or reflect upon it.
Therefore, her current diary, when it was filled, would be her last. It had been languishing since she’d left finishing school, and as much as Lillian Gilbey loved beginning projects, she abhorred languishing, incomplete ones. She conceived a plan to finish it off, dividing the blank pages by the two years until she planned to marry, with a dozen or so pages reserved at the end for wedding details. No more by thee my steps shall be, she would write her final night in her parents’ home, and thus would she close the literal covers of her girlhood.
Just now, however, she mentally composed a more prosaic notation for the half-completed volume. John Jones, she would write this evening, inattentive at the worst possible moments .
Here he idled, one foot propped on the balustrade that fronted Idensea’s Esplanade, his elbows at rest on the top rail. His gaze hadbeen fixed upon the gray sea and foreshore longer than the view really merited. Did he not realize here lay the opportunity he’d been awaiting the day through—her mother and sisters gone for another stroll down the pier, his final chance to be alone with her today? After all these months, did he not wish to say something to indicate his intentions toward her?
He’d been about to. At least, Lillian had thought so for a moment, and she’d dropped her eyes, as she believed she ought in such a situation, and reminded herself how far she would allow him to proceed. Not all the way to a proposal, certainly—there were too many diary pages yet to fill before that event could occur—but she needed some sort of something to help her decide whether his name should progress from Candidate to Contender.
She’d surprised herself the night she’d added his name to the Candidates, crossing off Patrick Markwell to make room in her list of ten. John Jones, she’d written, potential .
Not that you’d know it now, the way he was slouched over the railing, practically with his back to her, leaving her with nothing to do but twirl her parasol.
But then—
Then he looked over his shoulder and smiled at her, and she could not regret the lines through Patrick Markwell’s name. Lillian did not think John’s face very refined. It was too full and boyish for that, but when he smiled, it almost completely disguised the scar that made his eye droop and she could admit him good-looking, if somewhat raw. She scarcely registered what he was saying to her, something he’d noticed down on the shore.
She nodded as if she’d been joining him in his contemplation all along. For herself, even as a child, what she had found most remarkable in her seaside visits was how people lolled on the beach, quite as if they were home in their beds rather than in public. Idensea did not permit mixed bathing, and today’s weather gave the sea a foreboding appearance, so most of the bathing machines and their horses stood unused on the beach, but all along the shore, men and women cozied right alongside each other.
Lillian found it difficult not to stare. Because it was so vulgar. Many of them were only laboring types, come on cheap rail fares for Whitsuntide, so such unfortunate vulgarities must be expected. From them .
“They are having a fine time, aren’t
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