Dear Enemy

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.