It's really horrid of me to make fun of poor Sandy, for, despite his
stern bleakness of disposition, he's a pathetic figure of a man. Think
of coming home after an anxious day's round to eat a solitary dinner in
that grim dining room!
Do you suppose it would cheer him up a little if I should send my
company of artists to paint a frieze of rabbits around the wall?
With love, as usual,
SALLIE.
Dear Judy:
Aren't you ever coming back to New York? Please hurry! I need a new hat,
and am desirous of shopping for it on Fifth Avenue, not on Water Street.
Mrs. Gruby, our best milliner, does not believe in slavishly following
Paris Fashions; she originates her own styles. But three years ago, as
a great concession to convention, she did make a tour of the New York
shops, and is still creating models on the uplift of that visit.
Also, besides my own hat, I must buy 113 hats for my children, to say
nothing of shoes and knickerbockers and shirts and hair-ribbons and
stockings and garters. It's quite a task to keep a little family like
mine decently clothed.
Did you get that big letter I wrote you last week? You never had the
grace to mention it in yours of Thursday, and it was seventeen pages
long, and took me DAYS to write.
Yours truly,
S. McBRIDE.
P.S. Why don't you tell me some news about Gordon? Have you seen him,
and did he mention me? Is he running after any of those pretty Southern
girls that Washington is so full of? You know that I want to hear. Why
must you be so beastly uncommunicative?
Tuesday, 4:27 P.M.
Dear Judy:
Your telegram came two minutes ago by telephone.
Yes, thank you, I shall be delighted to arrive at 5:49 on Thursday
afternoon. And don't make any engagements for that evening, please, as
I intend to sit up until midnight talking John Grier gossip with you and
the president.
Friday and Saturday and Monday I shall have to devote to shopping. Oh,
yes, you're right; I already possess more clothes than any jailbird
needs, but when spring comes, I must have new plumage. As it is, I wear
an evening gown every night just to wear them out--no, not entirely
that; to make myself believe that I'm still an ordinary girl despite
this extraordinary life that you have pushed me into.
The Hon. Cy found me yesterday arrayed in a Nile-green crepe (Jane's
creation, though it looked Parisian). He was quite puzzled when he found
I wasn't going to a ball. I invited him to stay and dine with me, and
he accepted! We got on very affably. He expands over his dinner. Food
appears to agree with him. If there's any Bernard Shaw in New York just
now, I believe that I might spare a couple of hours Saturday afternoon
for a matinee. G. B. S.'s dialogue would afford such a life-giving
contrast to the Hon. Cy's.