And then I lost my head over the sudden notion that here was my chance to get rid of him too. For the man frightens me, Frances; I never met one who was so steady and so determined and so strong. Maybe I blundered; I don’t know. But I can’t have him getting to know me any better; I want never to see him again. So I said (I know I stiffened horribly as I said it, the thing was so uncalled for and so un-nice) “The lieutenant and I were just discussing army life, captain, and how little it has for a woman. For a man ought to be able to offer the best that there is.” It hurt him; it hurt his opinion of me. He went away almost without a word. I never was so ashamed; never before have I felt like a butcher. But if I meant it why shouldn’t I say it? Let him hate me, if only he lets me alone.
They march out Monday, and as I hear the drums go by on the main road I shall be glad. But I do so want to see you. Hurry the Chapmans all you can.
Longingly,
Vera.
From David Ridgway Farnham, 3d, To His
Father
Plattsburg, Sunday the 24th.
Dear Father:—
I am writing just a few lines to say that we are off tomorrow on the hike, in light marching order, and with very little bagage. I shall not even take my pajjamas. But I’d rather you wouldn’t tell mother this; it would upset her. Will you tell her that I’m really too busy to write, but that I’m in very fine condition, and she’s not to worry about me? And she said in her last letter something about taking a trip up here so as to be near us on the hike if anything should happen to me. This is really what I’m writing you about. Please stop her, father. I’d really rather she wouldn’t even be here when we break camp to take me home in the car. For I’d like to go home with the Boston bunch in the train.