"Maunday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday..."

Thursday evening

Really, one is a goose, and I had time to realize, even in this tumult of emotion, that there can be nothing so inconsistent as the feelings of a girl.

Monday evening

True dat.

And as for marriage, I shall have nothing to do with the horrid affair! Oh, dear, no! I shall go away free and be a happy adventuress.

Spoiler alert: She lies. She gets married in the end.
I, however, just may not.

Thursday night

"What are you going to do with your life now?" [Mr. Carruthers] asked, presently.
It was a bald question.
"I shall become an adventuress," I answered, deliberately.
"A what?" he exclaimed, his black eyebrows contracting.
"An adventuress. Is not that what it is called? A person who sees life, and has to do the best she can for herself."
He laughed. "You strange little lady!" he said, his irritation with me melting. And when he laughs you can see how even his teeth are, but the two side ones are sharp and pointed, like a wolf's.
"Perhaps, after all, you had better have married me!"
"No, that would clip my wings," I said, frankly, looking at him straight in the face.

She makes a good point. One I had realized before meeting Miss Evangeline Travers, and it's another reason I wanted to go to grad school this year. I am unattached.

"Do you know, you are a very disturbing person," he said, at last, by way of a beginning.
"What is that?" I asked.
"It is a woman who confuses one's thoughts when one looks at her. I do not now seem to have anything to say, or too much--"
"You called me a child."
"I should have called you an enigma."

Yeah, I render people of the opposite sex speechless, too. For months. (So, in deed unattached, although not necessarily in heart.)
All because of my silly, red hair.

Friday night

Then he told me he loved pictures, but not this sort.

"I like people to look human, you know, even on canvas," he said. "All these ladies appear as if they were getting enteric, like people used in Africa; and I don't like their halos and things; and all the men are old and bald. But you must not think me a Goth. You will teach me their points, won't you?-- and then I shall love them."

I said I did not care a great deal for them myself, except the color.

"Oh, I am so glad!" he said. "I shoud like to find we admired the same things; but no picture could interest me as much as your hair. It is the loveliest thing I have ever seen, and you do it so beautifully."

That did please me. He has the most engaging ways--Lord Robert-- and he is very well informed, not stupid a bit, or thick, only absolutely simple and direct. We talked softly together, quite happy for a while.

That is the only logical explanation I can come up with for the trouble I seem to have with the opposite sex. They love my hair--not me. And let's face it, hair is beauty that is barely skin deep.

I also realize that my trouble is because I apparently haven't met the right guy yet (details...). I have met one who I will always love (blasted unconditional Love), but who is incapable of loving me back.
My next move? Never see him again and squelch all chances of rekindling old flames (again).
Long story, making it short, I just wish the process of meeting the right guy wasn't so disorienting. Any hints, tips, advice, etc. are welcome (to my one reader, haha).

But, on the other hand, a man will not be able to love me if he does not also love my hair because, as you will learn, hair may be a beauty that is skin deep, but red hair truly is a character trait.
More of that to come.

'Til then, I am a goose.

P.S. Further proof that I am a goose.

When I got to my room, a lump came in my throat. Veronique had gone to bed, tired out with he day's packing.
I suddenly felt utterly alone--all the exaltation gone. For the moment, I hated the two downstairs. I felt the situation equivocal and untenable, and it had amused me so much an hour ago.
It is stupid and sill, and makes one's nose red, but I felt like crying a little before I got into bed.