February 7, 1916
It has been a slow Saturday, Helena. It is past lunch time and I’m still in my sleeping gown. I suppose last night’s ball has exhausted me more than I thought. I feel terribly groggy and cannot be more glad that I have an empty day planned! I only wish Phil will leave me alone today and refrain from pushing my doors open with a smile and hundred questions.
The ball last night was very beautiful, the music was divine, the ballroom splendid and Roy a grand dancer who made sure my dance card was never vacant.
Gilbert was there too with a lady, Christine Stuart. And she was a lady, indeed! Her fuchsia gown was exquisite, her chestnut hair shone by themselves and her eyes were a pretty sapphire. However, her nose was not half as good as mine. Nonetheless, she was very beautiful. She and Gilbert make a lovely pair.
Oh, I do miss Gil! We’ve not spoken a word since that affair, save for when he had promptly introduced me to Christine and excused himself immediately. It appears Christine is from a prominent family who are absolutely delighted with him; though that is easy enough to believe for Gil is quite a wonderful friend.
The rest of the evening was with Roy, naturally. You know, he wrote me a little verse at the dinner table on a napkin and slipped it to me during desert. It was very sweet, although I wish he would write a limerick every once in a while. Ah, listen to me cavil that he isn't writing the kind poetry I would like to hear. It was a pretty verse. I should be swept of my feet.
But...oh, Anne, what is wrong with you now?!
Who am I fooling but myself? I looked at Roy last night but I hardly saw him because the corner of my eyes were trained on a table under the palm trees across the room. I was not listening to those poetical compliments he murmured as he helped me with my coat. There was no blush or thrill last night.
What is happening to me, Helena? I should love Roy. He is everything I have wanted as a girl.
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