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.




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