A month ago, in similar circumstances, I should have railed at
Fate and anathematised Carlotta from the tip of her pink toes to
the gold and bronze glory of her hair. But I am growing more
kindly disposed towards Carlotta, and taking a keen interest in
her spiritual development.
An inner voice, an ironical, sardonic inner voice with which
there is no arguing, tells me that I am a hypocrite; that an
interest in Carlotta's spiritual development is a nice,
comforting, high-sounding phrase which has deluded philosophic
guardians of female youth for many generations.
"What does it matter to you whether she has a soul or not," says
the voice, "provided she can babble pleasantly at dinner and play
cribbage with you afterwards?"
Well, what on earth does it matter?
July 21st.
She was at Euston to meet me. As soon as she saw my face at the
carriage window she left Stenson and flew up the platform like a
pretty tame animal, and when I alighted hung on my arms and
frisked and gamboled around me in excess of joy.
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