June 3 + 

Went to see the Irish Players in The Playboy. Sitting in front of me was a charming little Irish girl accompanied by a male clod with red-rimmed eyes like a Bull-terrier’s, a sandy, bristly moustache like a housemaid’s broom, and a face like a gluteal mass, and a horrid voice that crepitated rather than spoke. + 

She was dark, with shining blue eyes, and a delightful little nose of the utmost import to every male who should gaze upon her. Between the acts, the clod hearkened to her vivacious conversation⁠—like an enchanted bullock. Her vivacity was such that the tip of her nose moved up and down for emphasis and by the end of the Third Act I was captured entirely. Lucky dog, that clod! + 

After the play this little Irish maiden caught my eye and it became a physical impossibility for me to check a smile⁠—and oh! Heavens!⁠—she gave me a smile in return. Precisely five seconds later, she looked again to see if I was still smiling⁠—I was⁠—and we then smiled broadly and openly on one another⁠—her smile being the timorous ingénue’s not the glad eye of a femme de joie. Later, on the railway platform whither I followed her, I caught her eye again (was ever so lucky a fellow?), and we got into the same carriage. But so did the clod⁠—ah! dear, was ever so unlucky a fellow? Forced to occupy a seat some way off, but she caught me trying to see her through a midnight forest of opera hats, lace ruffles, projecting ears and fat noses. + 

Curse! Left her at High Street Station and probably will never see her again. This is a second great opportunity. The first was the girl on Lundy Island. These two women I shall always regret. There must be so many delightful and interesting persons in London if only I could get at them. + 