Respectful regards to the president.
SAL. McB.
Dear Gordon:
That was an obnoxious, beastly, low-down trick not to send me a cheering
line for four weeks just because, in a period of abnormal stress I once
let you go for three. I had really begun to be worried for fear you'd
tumbled into the Potomac. My chicks would miss you dreadfully; they love
their uncle Gordon. Please remember that you promised to send them a
donkey.
Please also remember that I'm a busier person than you. It's a lot
harder to run the John Grier Home than the House of Representatives.
Besides, you have more efficient people to help.
This isn't a letter; it's an indignant remonstrance. I'll write
tomorrow--or the next day.
S.
P.S. On reading your letter over again I am slightly mollified, but
dinna think I believe a' your saft words. I ken weel ye only flatter
when ye speak sae fair.
July 17.
Dear Judy:
I have a history to recount.
This, please remember, is Wednesday next. So at half-past two o'clock
our little Sophie was bathed and brushed and clothed in fine linen, and
put in charge of a trusty orphan, with anxious instructions to keep her
clean.
At three-thirty to the minute--never have I known a human being so
disconcertingly businesslike as J. F. Bretland--an automobile of
expensive foreign design rolled up to the steps of this imposing
chateau. A square-shouldered, square-jawed personage, with a chopped-off
mustache and a manner that inclines one to hurry, presented himself
three minutes later at my library door. He greeted me briskly as "Miss
McKosh." I gently corrected him, and he changed to "Miss McKim." I
indicated my most soothing armchair, and invited him to take some light
refreshment after his journey. He accepted a glass of water (I admire a
temperate parent), and evinced an impatient desire to be done with the
business. So I rang the bell and ordered the little Sophie to be brought
down.
"Hold on, Miss McGee!" said he to me. "I'd rather see her in her own
environment. I will go with you to the playroom or corral or wherever
you keep your youngsters."
So I led him to the nursery, where thirteen or fourteen mites in gingham
rompers were tumbling about on mattresses on the floor. Sophie, alone
in the glory of feminine petticoats, was ensconced in the blue-ginghamed
arms of a very bored orphan. She was squirming and fighting to get down,
and her feminine petticoats were tightly wound about her neck. I took
her in my arms, smoothed her clothes, wiped her nose, and invited her to
look at the gentleman.