In all the world, dearest, what is more unequal than love between a man

and a woman? I have been spending an amorous morning and want to share it

with you: but lo, the task of bringing that bit of my life into your

vision is altogether beyond me.

What have I been doing? Dear man, I have been dressmaking! and dress,

when one is in the toils, is but a love-letter writ large. You will see

and admire the finished thing, but you will take no interest in the

composition. Therefore I say your love is unequal to mine.

For think how ravished I would be if you brought me a coat and told me

it was all your own making! One day you had thrown down a mere

tailor-made thing in the hall, and yet I kissed it as I went by. And

that was at a time when we were only at the handshaking stage, the

palsied beginnings of love:--you, I mean!

But oh, to get you interested in the dress I was making to you

to-day!--the beautiful flowing opening,--not too flowing: the elaborate

central composition where the heart of me has to come, and the wind-up

of the skirt, a long reluctant tailing-off, full of commas and colons of

ribbon to make it seem longer, and insertions everywhere. I dreamed

myself in it, retiring through the door after having bidden you

good-night, and you watching the long disappearing eloquence of that

tail, still saying to you as it vanished, "Good-by, good-by. I love you

so! see me, how slowly I am going!"

Well, that is a bit of my dress-making, a very corporate part of my

affection for you; and you are not a bit interested, for I have shown

you none of the seamy side; it is that which interests you male

creatures, Zolaites, every one of you.

And what have you to show similar, of the thought of me entering into

all your masculine pursuits? Do you go out rabbit-shooting for the love

of me? If so, I trust you make a miss of it every time! That you are a

sportsman is one of the very hardest things in life that I have to bear.

Last night Peterkins came up with me to keep guard against any further

intrusion of mice. I put her to sleep on the couch: but she discarded

the red shawl I had prepared for her at the bottom, and lay at the top

most uncomfortably in a parcel of millinery into which from one end I

had already made excavations, so that it formed a large bag. Into the

further end of this bag Turks crept and snuggled down: but every time

she turned in the night (and it seemed very often) the brown paper

crackled and woke me up. So at last I took it up and shook out its

contents; and Pippins slept soundly on red flannel till Nan-nan brought

the tea.




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