"Yes," he acknowledged today when he came to report, "it is a truthful
record of a certain kind of morbid, egotistical personality that
unfortunately does exist. But I can't understand why you care to
read it; for, thank God! Sally Lunn, you and Bash haven't anything in
common."
That's the nearest to a compliment he ever came, and I feel extremely
flattered. As to poor Marie, he refers to her as "Bash" because he can't
pronounce her name, and is too disdainful to try.
We have a child here, the daughter of a chorus girl, and she is a
conceited, selfish, vain, posing, morbid, lying little minx, but she has
eyelashes! Sandy has taken the most violent dislike to that child.
And since reading poor Marie's diary, he has found a new comprehensive
adjective for summing up all of her distressing qualities. He calls her
BASHY, and dismisses her.
Good-by and come again.
SALLIE.
P.S. My children show a distressing tendency to draw out their entire
bank accounts to buy candy.
Tuesday night. My dear Judy:
What do you think Sandy has done now? He has gone off on a pleasure trip
to that psychopathic institution whose head alienist visited us a month
or so ago. Did you ever know anything like the man? He is fascinated by
insane people, and can't let them alone.
When I asked for some parting medical instructions, he replied:
"Feed a cowld and hunger a colic and put nae faith in doctors."
With that advice, and a few bottles of cod-liver oil we are left to our
own devices. I feel very free and adventurous. Perhaps you had better
run up here again, as there's no telling what joyous upheaval I may
accomplish when out from under Sandy's dampening influence.
S.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME,
Friday.
Dear Enemy:
Here I stay lashed to the mast, while you run about the country
disporting yourself with insane people. And just as I was thinking that
I had nicely cured you of this morbid predilection for psychopathic
institutions! It's very disappointing. You had seemed almost human of
late.
May I ask how long you are intending to stay? You had permission to go
for two days, and you've already been away four.
Charlie Martin fell out of a cherry tree yesterday and cut his head
open, and we were driven to calling in a foreign doctor. Five stitches.
Patient doing well. But we don't like to depend on strangers. I wouldn't
say a word if you were away on legitimate business, but you know very
well that, after associating with melancholics for a week, you will come
back home in a dreadful state of gloom, dead sure that humanity is going
to the dogs; and upon me will fall the burden of getting you decently
cheerful again.