I am very happy. It is rather cold tonight, and presently Suzanne will

unhook me and I shall put on such a pretty negligée, and then curl up

in bed, turn on my reading light with the pink shade, and continue to

read the new novel recommended to me by Princess Naïa, called "Le

Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard." It is a perfectly darling story, and

Anatole France, who wrote it, must be a darling, too. The Princess

knows him and promises that he shall dine with us some day. I expect

to fall in love with him immediately.

Good night, dear Mr. Neeland. I hope you will write to me.

Your little Gayfield friend grown up,

Ruhannah Carew.

This letter he finally did answer, not voluminously, but with all

cordiality. And, in a few days, forgot about it and about the girl to

whom it was written. And there was nothing more from her until early

summer.

Then came the last of her letters--an entirely mature missive, firm in

writing, decisive, concise, self-possessed, eloquent with an

indefinite something which betrayed a calmly ordered mind already

being moulded by discipline mondaine: * * * * * My dear Mr. Neeland: I had your very kind and charming letter in reply to mine written last

January. My neglect to answer it, during all these months, involves

me in explanations which, if you like, are perhaps due you. But if you

require them at all, I had rather surrender them to you personally

when we meet.

Possibly that encounter, so happily anticipated on my part, may occur

sooner than you believe likely. I permit myself to hope so. The note

which I enclose to you from the lady whom I love very dearly should

explain why I venture to entertain a hope that you and I are to see

each other again in the near future.

As you were kind enough to inquire about myself and what you describe

so flatteringly as my "amazing progress in artistic and worldly

wisdom," I venture to reply to your questions in order: They seem to be pleased with me at the school. I have a life-drawing

"on the wall," a composition sketch, and a "concours" study in oil.

That I have not burst to atoms with pride is a miracle inexplicable.

I have been told that my progress at the piano is fair. But I am very

certain I shall do no more with vocal and instrumental music than to

play and sing acceptably for such kind and uncritical friends as do

not demand much of an amateur. Without any unusual gifts, with a

rather sensitive ear, and with a very slightly cultivated and

perfectly childish voice--please do not expect anything from me to

please you.




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