You can't imagine how exhilarated and set-up I feel, as though I'd come
into my own again after a period of social ostracism. I must confess
that I get lonely for some one who talks my kind of nonsensical talk.
Betsy trots off home every week end, and the doctor is conversational
enough, but, oh, so horribly logical! Gordon somehow seems to stand for
the life I belong to,--of country clubs and motors and dancing and sport
and politeness,--a poor, foolish, silly life, if you will, but mine own.
And I have missed it. This serving society business is theoretically
admirable and compelling and interesting, but deadly stupid in its
working details. I am afraid I was never born to set the crooked
straight.
I tried to show Gordon about and make him take an interest in the
babies, but he wouldn't glance at them. He thinks I came just to spite
him, which, of course, I did. Your siren call would never have lured me
from the path of frivolity had Gordon not been so unpleasantly hilarious
at the idea of my being able to manage an orphan asylum. I came here to
show him that I could; and now, when I can show him, the beast refuses
to look.
I invited him to dinner, with a warning about the pressed veal; but he
said no, thanks, that I needed a change. So we went to Brantwood Inn and
had broiled lobster. I had positively forgotten that the creatures were
edible.
This morning at seven o'clock I was wakened by the furious ringing of
the telephone bell. It was Gordon at the station, about to resume his
journey to Washington. He was in quite a contrite mood about the asylum,
and apologized largely for refusing to look at my children. It was not
that he didn't like orphans, he said; it was just that he didn't like
them in juxtaposition to me. And to prove his good intentions, he would
send them a bag of peanuts.
I feel as fresh and revivified after my little fling as though I'd had a
real vacation. There's no doubt about it, an hour or so of exciting talk
is more of a tonic to me than a pint of iron and strychnine pills.
You owe me two letters, dear Madam. Pay them TOUT DE SUITE, or I lay
down my pen forever.
Yours, as usual,
S. McB.
Tuesday, 5 P.M. My dear Enemy:
I am told that during my absence this afternoon you paid us a call and
dug up a scandal. You claim that the children under Miss Snaith are not
receiving their due in the matter of cod-liver oil.