“LA BELLE HÉLÈNE”

Mrs. Olmsted Morrison to Mrs. Franklin Bennett, Rhinebeck-on-Hudson

Baltimore, October 20th.

MY DEAREST ALMA: As we have been confiding our joys and woes to each other for the last twenty-five years, it is to you I naturally write about this new trial which has come into my life. You will probably think it peu de chose, but I assure you, my dear, that if you really and truly put yourself in my place you will realize that it is an annoyance. Henry’s child has at last written to me that she “has finished her studies for the present” (!) and is coming to America to spend the winter with us. You must see, Alma, that this is slightly appalling. I have never seen her—not since she was a little thing with enormous gray eyes and a freckled nose—and I know absolutely nothing about her except what Henry wrote me from time to time, when he stopped his eternal wanderings long enough to remember he had a sister. But judging by the education he gave her—and I consider it simply deplorable—and the evident taste she had for it, and later for “the higher education of woman,” I feel distressingly positive that I cannot approve of the child. I am very sorry now that I did not make an effort to go to her when her father died in England, five years ago, but she wrote me that she had friends there who were doing everything for her, and that she was coming directly to America to enter college according to her father’s wishes, and that there was really no need to disturb myself about her. I could see, Alma, the effect of the independent, strange existence she had led, in that letter. It repelled me. Now, Eleanor, I am sure, would have been completely prostrated, the dear child!

So she came directly to Boston, and I, being so busy with my own preparations for taking Eleanor and Margaret to Paris, simply could not arrange to go on to Boston to see her. As of course you know, we remained abroad four years, and last year, when we returned and I expected to see Helen at last, she wrote me a letter which I got just before leaving Paris, saying that she had decided to go to Oxford for a year to take a course in mathematical astronomy at the Lady Margaret Hall. So we passed each other in mid-ocean.

Fancy, Alma! I knew when I read that letter what kind of a girl she was. One of your hard students, engrossed in books, without one thought for dress or social manners! I am afraid she will prove a severe trial. And just when Eleanor is counting on having such a gay second winter and Margaret is to début. It is a little hard, is it not, dear? Thank Heaven, I shall never have to blame myself as Henry would have to do if he were alive. At least I have seen to it that my daughters have had the education which will fit them to ornament society, the education that I still believe in notwithstanding all this talk of colleges for women and advancement in learning, and college settlements and extensions, and Heaven knows what besides!

My girls have had first, the best of training at Mrs. Meed’s, and then four years at Les Oiseaux, you know. They speak French perfectly, of course, and Margaret has even tried Italian and German. They both ride and drive well, and Eleanor plays and sings very sweetly. But what is the use of my telling you about them when you know them so well?

I only wish, Alma, you could tell me something about Helen! Just think, I have never even seen a photograph of her! It is one of her fads not to have them taken, from which I argue that she is very homely, very opinionated, and very strange. Eleanor has two dozen in different poses, I am sure. The only information I have at all about Helen’s looks is from Margaret, who saw her for an hour in Brookline—it was five years ago—just before we sailed. She had run up to see a Boston friend for a few days, and of course she was very young and has probably forgotten, but she insists that Helen was rather pretty. However, I do not attach the least importance to what Margaret says, because, as you know, she is so good-natured that she always says the best of everyone; and then her tastes are sometimes really deplorable—so unlike Eleanor’s! Besides, her description of Helen does not sound like that of a pretty girl. She says she wore her hair parted and back from her face, and was slightly near-sighted. Think of it, Alma! For the hair, encore passe, Mr. Gibson and Mr. Wenzell have made that so much the fashion lately that one might forgive it; but short-sighted! Eye-glasses! Spectacles perhaps! Hard study since may have completely ruined her eyes. I greatly fear she will show up very badly beside Eleanor’s piquant beauty and Margaret’s freshness.

She writes me that she will be here in a month, so that it is time I was seriously considering what I am to do with her. Of course, with the severe education she has had, she probably dislikes society and could not be induced to go out, knowing well that she could not shine in it; but as my brother’s child she must be at least introduced properly, and she can then subside gracefully. Of course, where there are two such attractive girls in the house as Eleanor and Margaret, she cannot hope to compete in social honors with them, and will probably much prefer in any case to continue her studies or go in for charitable work, or something of that sort.

My dear Alma, I have just read over this letter and am shocked to see how much I have written about this affair. Forgive me if I have wearied you and—yes, do give me some good advice.

Are you going to Carlsbad?

The girls are out of town for a few days, or would send love as I do.

Very affectionately yours, Marian Morrison.

P.S. They say a woman cannot write a letter without a postscript, and I believe it! Tell me what to do about H. How had I best introduce her to society? Don’t you think a dinner—where she could sit beside someone whom I could especially choose as suited to her—and where she would not be too much en évidence? A dance would not do at all—I doubt if she can dance, poor girl!

M. M.

Mrs. Franklin Bennett to Mrs. Olmsted Morrison.

October 22d.

My Dearest Marian: How could you think me so cold-blooded as to consider such a piece of news as your letter contains “peu de chose”? I feel for you, I assure you. What a dilemma! The dear girls! how do they like the idea? Margaret, as you say, will probably not mind, but Eleanor—so exquisitely pretty and stylish! It will be rather a thorn in the flesh, I imagine. O! how I wish I had children—two such lovely girls as yours would make life a different thing for me!

Of course, the dinner. How could you think of anything else! Invite some of the professors from the University for her, and have the rest of the company of young society people, so that Eleanor and Margaret can enjoy it too.

Oh, my dear, I would like to write a long, long letter about this, but I am in such confusion and hurry! Mr. Bennett has been ordered to Wiesbaden for the winter, and we sail in a week. I wish I could be in Baltimore to help you, but it is impossible, of course. I count on your writing me all your plans, and just how Helen appears, and whether it is all as dreadful as you now fear. Address to the Langham Hotel until November 25th, after that, care Brown, Shipley, as usual. Good-by. I have a thousand things to tell you of, but must put them off until I reach London and have a moment to myself.

As ever, Devotedly yours, A. B.

P.S. Don’t look too much on the dark side of things. I knew a Philadelphia girl once—the niece of old Colonel Devereaux you know—and she was rather pretty and quite good form, though a college girl. I think, however, she had been but one year to college.

A. B.

Mrs. Olmsted Morrison to Mrs. Franklin Bennett, the Langham Hotel, London, W. C.

Baltimore, November 15th.

Dearest Alma: Your note, which was so welcome and which came so long ago, would have had an earlier answer had I not been a little sick, and so busy and worried that I have not had time or heart to write even to you. So you can imagine in what a state I am.

The girls came back to town shortly after I last wrote you, and we held a sort of family council about Helen. The dear girls were charming, and Eleanor bore it very bravely. She says she will give Helen hints about her hair, and will implore her not to wear spectacles, but rimless eye-glasses.

We are very much worried about her gowns. Of course her own taste is not to be depended upon, and I hardly fancy her income would justify her in leaving her toilette entirely with a grande couturière, even if she would dream of doing such a thing, which I very much doubt. Her father, you know, left the bulk of his fortune to found a library in Westchester. He always said he never intended to leave Helen enough to tempt anyone to marry her for her money. Poor Henry—what a strange, misguided man! But then, of course, he could not foresee that his daughter would be an ugly duckling, and strong-minded and college-bred, and all that. Oh, yes, of course he must have known about the college. But at any rate, man-like, he did not realize how unattractive Helen would be.

Well, as I say, we talked it over, and the girls agree with me that the best thing is a dinner. Eleanor was for having it a small affair. She said it would be truer kindness to Helen, but Margaret, who is very blunt sometimes, I am sorry to say, said she thought “we ought to give Helen a chance,” as she rather vulgarly expressed it, and insisted so strongly on it that we gave in, and have decided to have a dinner, and invite some of Eleanor’s friends later to a small dance. This will relieve Eleanor of some of her more pressing social obligations, and she will also be able to introduce Margaret to some of her particular set before she makes her formal début later in the season. A débutante cannot have too many friends.

And so, after talking it over, we determined to invite Professor Radnor, of the University. He is a comparatively young man—about forty-five, I judge—and though far from handsome he is considered very interesting, I believe, to those who understand him. He is of good family, too—one of the Radnors of Cliff Hill, you know. He and Helen can talk biology or whatever it is he professes—I really forget what it is. Then there is Colonel Gray—I shall invite him because he was an old friend of her father, and though very grumpy and disagreeable, and apt to bore one to death with his interminable war stories, still I always invite him to the house once a year, and he is to be depended upon to come; and indeed, Alma, I am so perplexed to know whom to invite that I really cannot pick and choose. Then I think I shall have the new rector at “All Souls.” He is a young man, an Englishman, and as stupid as the proverbial Britisher; very high church, and as I have not yet invited him to dinner, I think the choice of him rather diplomatic. It really has been too much of an exertion to get up a dinner-party for him alone, and indeed Eleanor cannot bear him, she says; but with her usual sweetness has consented to have him come if Helen and Margaret will take him off her hands. He and Helen will doubtless find much to say to each other about Dr. Bernardo, and the People’s Palace, and that sort of thing. I think with these three I can safely let the girls take care of the rest, and invite younger people who will be congenial to them. I say younger people, for Helen must be twenty-three or four, and she will doubtless seem much older and graver. You see I shall be prepared; I know this will be an ordeal, but I mean to do the best for her that I can. I shall have everything as handsome as possible—the girls are particularly anxious about it—as Eleanor proposes asking young Claghart, the new artist, you know, who is making such a name for himself.

Helen will be here in a week. I shall send out the invitations in a day or two, so as to have no refusals—dinner engagements are already getting numerous. I shall let you know all about Helen and the dinner-party. I know you are as interested as myself in this, and that you sympathize with me. Poor Henry! to think that he should have given me a niece who has spent the best years of her life shut up in colleges, and ruining health and looks in sedentary, intellectual pursuits!

The Kinglakes were here yesterday and send their kindest regards to you. Good-by! A thousand best wishes for a happy trip. Do tell Mr. Bennett how much I hope he will be improved by Wiesbaden.

Write soon to your devoted friend,

Marian M.

Mrs. Olmsted Morrison to Colonel Ralph Gray.

My Dear Colonel: Of course it is to you, Henry’s oldest friend, that I write first to tell the charming news that his daughter Helen is coming to us in a week. She has “finished her studies for the present,” so she writes, and we are at last to see the dear child. We are delighted to have her come, and feel that she must meet you at once. You will certainly find her to your taste, as she is so highly educated and not at all like these society girls whom you justly condemn as utterly frivolous.

We have arranged a little dinner-party for Thursday, the twenty-fourth, and positively count on you to come and put us all in a good humor with one of your inimitable war stories.

Most cordially your friend, Marian V. Morrison.

Friday, November the eighteenth.

Mrs. Morrison to the Reverend Percival Beaufort.

My Dear Mr. Beaufort: Will you give us the great pleasure of seeing you at dinner on Thursday evening, at half-past eight? Only severe illness has kept me from asking this favor long ago, so that I very much hope nothing will prevent your accepting now. Eleanor tells me to remind you that the Young People’s Guild has been changed to Wednesday evening, so at least that will not interfere with your acceptance. If you come, virtue will not be its own reward in this case. I have a niece whom I am particularly anxious you should meet. She is intensely interested in all charities—especially London charities—and is very quiet and charming, if not exactly pretty. But I am sure you agree with me that beauty is often only a snare!

The girls particularly wish to be remembered.

Most truly yours, Marian V. Morrison.

Friday, November the eighteenth.

Mrs. Morrison to Professor Albert Radnor, Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore.

November the eighteenth.

My Dear Professor Radnor: Can we persuade you to abandon your lectures and experiments long enough to dine with us on the evening of the twenty-fourth? I know we are very frivolous and not at all the people to interest you, however much you interest us, but I fancy I shall have someone here whom you will be glad to meet. I want you to know my niece, Miss Helen Hammersley. She is an immensely clever girl—has taken her degree at one of our famous women’s colleges, and has just returned from a year of Oxford and the Bodleian, so that I feel reasonably sure she will be able to listen intelligently to you, at any rate. She is greatly interested in your specialty, and will certainly esteem it the greatest privilege to meet such a noted authority on the subject as yourself.

I will take no excuse.

Very sincerely your friend, Marian V. Morrison.

Miss Eleanor Morrison to Miss Grace Fairfax, Washington, D. C.

November 19th.

Dearest Grace: We are sending out invitations to dinner and small dance afterward in honor of a cousin of ours, Helen Hammersley, who is coming from England to spend the winter with us, and of course we thought of you first and foremost. You must come and save the situation with your brilliancy and tact. There! can you refuse me after that? To tell you the truth, dear, we are all awfully worried about the whole thing. We none of us know Helen at all, and we are simply au désespoir about her because she is such a strange girl. She has been at college for five years—first in America and then at Oxford, and we all feel miserably sure of what an impossible sort of girl she is. She even took some sort of honor in mathematics at Oxford—just fancy! What she is going to be like in a ball-room no mortal can guess! So we have done the best we can—mamma has invited some old fogies to entertain her, and I propose we make our end of the table as much of a shining contrast as possible. I shall ask that Canadian you adore so—Reggie Montrose—for you, and your brother Jerry for Margaret, and shall reserve Wayne Claghart for myself; so please take warning and let that youth severely alone. He is my especial property, and I consider him simply the nicest man I know. He has hinted two or three times that he would like to sketch my head. He needn’t be afraid of my refusing, if he’d only ask me outright! I shall tell Helen, of course, that I asked him because he has lately returned from England, and she has just returned, etc., etc., but I’m afraid he’ll be so far away from her and she’ll be so busy talking theologies with Professor Radnor (forgot to tell you mamma has asked him!), and the East End with Percy Beaufort, that I don’t think she’ll have a chance to stun him with her learning. Besides, I don’t think he is the man to devote much time to that sort of a girl.

Now, don’t disappoint me! I count on you. Later there will be a lot of people in—the usual crowd, you know—and if you’ll say positively you’ll come, we will make it a small cotillon and you shall lead with Reggie.

I’ll let Margaret write to Jerry—they are such chums, but you be sure and make him come. Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, let him know about Helen’s homeliness and flabbergastering attainments, or he won’t stir a foot.

Good-by. Expect you down Wednesday. Telegraph me you will come.

As ever, Eleanor.

Miss Eleanor Morrison to Reginald Montrose, Esq., Murray Hill Hotel, New York City.

November 19th.

Dear Mr. Montrose: Thank you so much for that lovely philopena present. How charming of you to have thought of that! Won’t you take dinner with us next Thursday, at half after eight, and let me thank you in person? After dinner you may dance the cotillon with Miss Fairfax. There! is not that an inducement? I have a cousin whom I want you to meet, too—she is just returning to America and is very learned, and not quite your style, I fear, but she will doubtless be good for you after me!

Most cordially yours, Eleanor Morrison.

Miss Eleanor Morrison to Wayne Claghart, Esq., Twenty-third Street, New York City.

Saturday, November 19th.

Dear Mr. Claghart: Do you remember your promise to run down to Baltimore? Well, I shall expect you to keep it next Thursday. We are to have a little dinner and a dance afterward (perhaps I should say a dinner and a little dance—no, the adjective belongs to both), and I shall certainly expect you to be on hand. Your fame has preceded you, of course, and a great many very nice young women are simply existing on the thought of meeting Mr. Wayne Claghart, the artist! Shall I reserve the very prettiest and nicest of them all to dance the cotillon with you?

Hoping to see you without fail,

Very sincerely yours, Eleanor Morrison.

Miss Margaret Morrison to Mr. Jeré Fairfax, Washington, D. C.

November 19th.

Dear Jerry: Eleanor has a dinner on for next Thursday, and we want you to throw over all your numerous engagements for that evening and come to us. Do, Jerry—and favor me a lot—I forgot to say there was a german afterward—and be generally nice to your débutante, Margot. As an inducement I will say that we’ve got a jolly surprise for you. Eleanor don’t want me to tell, but I’m going to. Our cousin, Helen Hammersley, is coming to spend the winter with us—it’s for her the dinner is being given—and mamma and Eleanor are in despair about her. I don’t believe she’s half bad, but they say she’s awfully ugly, and too smart to be nice. I suppose she is awfully erudite—is that the word? Wears specs, and dresses like everything, I suppose. Wonder if she ever danced the german—she can have a sprained ankle if she don’t know how.

As ever, Margaret.

Telegram—Miss Grace Fairfax to Miss Eleanor Morrison, Baltimore.

Washington, November 20th.

Delighted to come. Charmed to lead with R. Have two new figures. Order little French flags for one set favors.

Grace.

Telegram—Miss Grace Fairfax to Miss Eleanor Morrison.

Washington, November 22d.

Terrible attack tonsillitis. Doctor says positively cannot go.

Grace.

Miss Eleanor Morrison to Miss Marie de Rochemont, Charles Street.

My Dear Miss de Rochemont: Much to my surprise and annoyance I have this moment found an invitation which I thought had been mailed to you several days ago. It must have slipped out of the other notes some way and has been lying under some papers here on my desk ever since. Can you forgive this mischance and accept so tardy an invitation? It will give us all the greatest pleasure to see you at half after eight. I especially want to introduce to you a cousin of mine just returned from the other side. She has been in college all her life, and I want her to meet some of our most charming society girls to rub her shyness off and make her take more interest in social life. Perhaps you may convert her! Hoping that no previous engagement will prevent our seeing you Thursday,

Most sincerely yours, Eleanor Morrison.

Mrs. Olmsted Morrison to Mrs. Franklin Bennett, care of Brown, Shipley & Co., London.

November 25th.

My Dear Alma: What a surprise! I can scarcely collect my thoughts sufficiently to write intelligently on the subject. I really was never more surprised in all my life—more intensely and thoroughly surprised. But I must try and tell you connectedly all about it. To begin with—Helen did not come on the twentieth as we had expected, but telegraphed us that she was detained in Boston and would not reach Baltimore until the morning of the twenty-fourth. This was very annoying, as I was most anxious about her gown for the dinner, and then I imagined that she would be utterly dragged out after travelling all night. Dear Eleanor would have been, I am quite sure. But Helen seems to be one of those distressingly healthy people—no nerves, no sensitiveness. She quite laughed when I asked her if she were not tired!

Well—she came on the eleven-five train, and, Alma, she is not at all the kind of person I had expected. She is even handsome after a certain style of her own—not one that I admire—not at all Eleanor’s style. But certainly it could be much worse. The men even seemed to find her quite good-looking. She has certainly preserved her complexion wonderfully well—and as for her being short-sighted! Between ourselves I am sure it is only an excuse for using a very beautiful lorgnon, and for looking rather intently at one in a sort of meditative way which I consider rather offensive, but which Percy Beaufort told me he found most attractive. He is very disappointing, by the way; I had expected so much of him, but I find him quite an ordinary young man.

I was really shocked at Helen’s levity. I had expected from her superior education that her mind would be above trivialities, but the way she laughed and seemed to enjoy the conversation of Reggie Montrose and Jerry Fairfax! and if she had confined her attentions to those boys! But, Alma, she even tried to infatuate Colonel Gray and Professor Radnor! Two such men! She is far from being the quiet, thoughtful student I had expected to so enjoy. Why, she had the audacity to say to Colonel Gray, after one of his irascible explosions at things in general—“My dear Colonel, you are a living example of squaring the circle—quite round yet full of angles!” You know how rotund the Colonel is, Alma. Think of it! To Colonel Gray, whose irritability is simply proverbial. And he actually seemed to enjoy it! Men of a certain age seem to be only too willing to make fools of themselves if a young girl looks at them. And Percival Beaufort, who is so interested in London charities, could not extract one word from her on the subject, I believe; at any rate I distinctly heard her giving him an animated account of the last “Eights Week,” and he was inquiring solicitously who was the coxswain for Magdalen! Even Professor Radnor seemed to lose his head, though I believe she talked more sensibly to him than to the others, for he told me that she was one of the few women he had ever met who seemed to thoroughly understand Abel’s demonstration of the impossibility of solving a quintic equation by means of radicals—whatever that means.

By the way, we need not have worried about her gown at all. It was quite presentable, and had in it a quantity of rare old point d’Alençon which Helen says Henry picked up in Paris. It quite vexed me to think that I have none of that pattern—it is especially beautiful.

Eleanor would add a word, but she is feeling quite ill this morning, dear child! She was so worried over the dinner. At the very last moment Grace Fairfax failed her, and she was obliged to invite Marie de Rochemont in her place. We were especially sorry that Grace could not come, and that Jerry did. He is getting completely spoiled; his assurance and inconsiderateness are truly wonderful.

By the way, we have changed our plans for the winter slightly. We are going to the Bermudas for a month, and Helen will visit friends in Boston for the rest of the winter. Write soon and let me know how Mr. Bennett is feeling. Address here, all our mail will be forwarded.

As ever, your devoted friend, Marian Morrison.

Mr. Jeré Fairfax to Miss Grace Fairfax, Washington, D. C.

Baltimore, November 25th.

Dear Grace: I suppose I’ve got to keep my solemn promise to write to you all about the blow-out, though it’s an awful effort for me to write letters, and I’m so razzle-dazzled too! You simply weren’t in it! She’s stunning! The fellows all call her “La Belle Hélène.” Claghart started the name and it took like wildfire. The fair Eleanor is furious. She looked perfectly insignificant by the side of that magnificent creature. What the dickens did Margaret mean by her letter? Why, Helen Hammersley is a perfect beauty. It isn’t good to spring a surprise like that on a fellow. Bad for one’s nerves. Claghart is terribly shaken. Found out she had met ever so many celebrated artists, English and French, and they jawed for hours. Fact is Claghart’s got the cinch on the rest of us because she’s so awfully interested in art—I heard her tell him so. Oh! I almost forgot to tell you the joke! You see, Mrs. Morrison had put her up at her end of the table, with the rector of All Souls on one side of her—the old duffer!—and that fossil, Professor Radnor, on the other, and of all people in the world that ante-bellum specimen, Colonel Ralph Gray, opposite! Think of that, with Montrose and Claghart and myself at the other end, cut off from her by half a dozen married people! Think of the injustice, the tactlessness of such a proceeding! Well, I simply determined to shake things up a bit, so after the bird I said, as sweetly as only yours truly can say, “Mrs. Morrison, I was at the Dwights’ the other evening to a progressive dinner-party. Charming idea, don’t you think?” I knew all the men would back me up, and sure enough Reggie Montrose sang out, “Yes, indeed, Mrs. Morrison! Why not try it to-night?” and before the words were fairly out of his mouth, Claghart had jumped up with his wine-glass and his napkin in his hand, and was moving up one seat nearer “La Belle Hélène.” Of course there was an awful muss and Eleanor was furious, I could see, but she pulled herself together and smiled awfully sweetly at Claghart. Marie de Rochemont turned perfectly green—give you my word of honor. Margaret was the only one who seemed really not to mind. She’s a nice little thing, but she won’t have much show in society if Helen Hammersley is around.

I wish I could tell you about “La Belle Hélène,” but I’m not much for descriptions. She’s different from any girl I ever knew—not very tall, but awfully good figure—fixes her hair like those stunning girls of Gibson’s you know, and she’s got a way of looking at a fellow—earnest and yet half laughing—that’s enough to drive one out of one’s senses. She’s got that je ne sais quoi, you know—something awfully fetching and magnetic and all that sort of thing. (You’ll think me a drivelling idiot!) She wore a beauty of a gown, white satin—or gauze, I’m not sure which. Was going to ask Claghart—being an artist he’s up to such fine distinctions—but forgot it. I say, Grace, why don’t your gowns look like that? You’d better ask her who built hers. Tell you what, she’s just fascinating—not stiff or uppish a bit, but she’s got a certain sort of dignity you girls don’t seem to acquire, some way or other.

She simply hoodooed old Gray, not to mention Percy Beaufort, the Professor, and several dozen others, including your devoted brother. There was one solemn moment at the cotillion when every man in the room was around her. The other girls looked black, I promise you! What the deuce, Grace, makes you girls so jealous? I actually believe Eleanor didn’t like her cousin’s brilliant success at all, and yet you told me she was so anxious about it. Can’t make you girls out.

You say she’s been to college all her life and is awfully smart? Well, I suppose she is—she looks that way—but she didn’t come any of it on us. And yet she’s clever, that’s sure, for she knows all the points of difference between the Rugby and Association game, and I heard her talking golf with Claghart and telling Professor Radnor that dancing was a healthful amusement, and he was asking her, in the most idiotic way, if she’d teach him the two-step. Wasn’t that rich! And old Gray said to a lot of fellows in the smoking-room that, “By Jove, she was the handsomest girl he’d seen in a quarter of a century, and that if she was an example of a college-bred girl he wished they’d all go to college.”

Well, I must stop. I really believe, Grace, this is the longest letter I ever wrote, and I want you to put it to my credit—understand? and the next time I try to arrange a trip to Mount Vernon with certain people, you’ll please be more amenable to reason—See?

I think I’ve told you everything except that I’m going to stop here for a few days—they’re always asking me, you know, and I told Margaret last night that I’d accept this time. Eleanor looked as if she didn’t half like it. Why not, do you suppose? But I can’t tear myself away. I’m desperately in love with “La Belle Hélène,” besides I’m awfully interested in watching the running between Claghart and Montrose. It will be a close finish, I think, with Claghart in the lead, Montrose a good second, and a full field not far behind. Excuse sporting instincts and language.

As ever, your aff. brother, Jerry.

How’s your throat? Better, I hope. Hers is lovely—“like a piece of marble column”—at least that’s what Reggie confided to me at 3 G. M. this morning.

J. F.