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that kind before—they’ve been poetry and plays mostly—grown-up things. She’s so anxious to keep me fifteen though! I hope—no, she couldn't know. Oh, my God, don’t let her know! If she laughed . . . I can laugh at it, but if anyone else did . . .

“Oh, damn it—damn it all! What does it matter? I don’t care if she does know what a fool I am—at least, while she’s here I feel as if I wanted her to know, and as quick as she goes away, I feel I’d rather die. . . . I’ve seen a lot of men in love, and it took them in all sorts of ways, but I don’t suppose anybody was ever such an ass as this before. I might at least have waited till I was eighteen; I used to think eighteen was grown up. . . . Well, it won’t last, of course. It feels like the stars and the sea, but then I suppose it always does that. I thought last night I’d go away, but I won’t unless they get tired of me. I want to see her and hear her speak. . . . I wonder how soon it will stop. . . .”