‘Well, they'll be precious cut up about it, that's all’ said Harry, with rather a blank face, ‘and my cousin Amelia…’

‘Don't say another word!’ I cried enthusiastically, ‘I'll go!’ And as my omnibus came by at the moment, I jumped in and rattled off before he had recovered his astonishment at my change of manner. So it is settled, and tomorrow I am to see an Amelia, and… Oh Destiny, what hast thou in store for me?

August 24, Wednesday.

A glorious morning. Packed in a great hurry, luckily breaking only two bottles and three glasses in doing so. Arrived at Rosemary Villa as the party were sitting down to breakfast. Father, mother, two sons from school, a host of children from the nursery and the inevitable baby.

But how shall I describe the daughter? Words are powerless; nothing but a Tablotype could do it. Her nose was in beautiful perspective; her mouth wanting perhaps the last possible foreshortening; but the exquisite half-tints on the cheek could have blinded one to any defects, and as to the high light on her chin, it was (photographically speaking) perfection. Oh! what a picture she would have made if fate had not… but I am anticipating.

There was a Captain Flanaghan present.

I am aware that the preceding paragraph is slightly abrupt, but when I reached that point, I remembered that the idiot actually believed himself engaged to Amelia (my Amelia!). I choked, and could get no further. His figure, I am willing to admit, was good: some might have admired his face; but what is face or figure without brains?

My own figure is perhaps a little inclined to the robust; in stature I am none of your military giraffes… but why should I describe myself? My photograph (done by myself) will be sufficient evidence to the world.