Dear Enemy

They live in a fascinating old house with an Italian garden, and

furnishings selected from the whole round world. It does seem like

sacrilege to turn that destructive child loose in such a collection of

treasures. But he hasn't broken anything here for more than a month, and

I believe that the Italian in him will respond to all that beauty.

I warned them that they must not shrink from any profanity that might

issue from his pretty baby lips.

He departed last night in a very fancy automobile, and maybe I wasn't

glad to say good-by to our disreputable young man! He has absorbed just

about half of my energy.

Friday.

The pendant arrived this morning. Many thanks! But you really ought not

to have given me another; a hostess cannot be held accountable for all

the things that careless guests lose in her house. It is far too

pretty for my chain. I am thinking of having my nose pierced, Cingalese

fashion, and wearing my new jewel where it will really show.

I must tell you that our Percy is putting some good constructive work

into this asylum. He has founded the John Grier Bank, and has worked

out all the details in a very professional and businesslike fashion,

entirely incomprehensible to my non-mathematical mind. All of the older

children possess properly printed checkbooks, and they are each to be

paid five dollars a week for their services, such as going to school and

accomplishing housework. They are then to pay the institution (by check)

for their board and clothes, which will consume their five dollars. It

looks like a vicious circle, but it's really very educative; they will

comprehend the value of money before we dump them into a mercenary

world. Those who are particularly good in lessons or work will receive

an extra recompense. My head aches at the thought of the bookkeeping,

but Percy waves that aside as a mere bagatelle. It is to be accomplished

by our prize arithmeticians, and will train them for positions of trust.

If Jervis hears of any opening for bank officials, let me know; I shall

have a well-trained president, cashier, and paying teller ready to be

placed by this time next year.

Saturday.

Our doctor doesn't like to be called "Enemy." It hurts his feelings or

his dignity or something of the sort. But since I will persist, despite

his expostulations, he has finally retaliated with a nickname for me. He

calls me "Miss Sally Lunn," and is in a glow of pride at having achieved

such an imaginative flight.

He and I have invented a new pastime: he talks Scotch, and I answer in

Irish. Our conversations run like this: