"Did you ever happen to meet a Mr. William Hunt and his wife? He is a very good sort, and she is a perfect darling, one of those rare flowers whose fragrance fills the air even on the highway; not one of the hothouse kind that has been forced to bloom out of season, for out of season and in season she is always blooming and shedding forth her sweetness." Miss Dorothy paused.
"Oh, but Miss Dorothy, I could never write like that," exclaimed Marian in an awe-stricken tone.
"Perhaps not just like that, but you can tell him about yourself and about the people you know, Mrs. Hunt, for instance, and your schoolmates, and Tippy and Dippy."
"And you?"
"Yes, and me, if you like."
"Oh, very well, I will try again. I didn't know we ought to write letters like that."
"That is the very kind we should write. I will finish mine while you do yours." So for the next few minutes the tapping of the typewriter drowned the scratching of Miss Dorothy's pen, which flew steadily over her paper.
At last Miss Dorothy looked up. "There," she exclaimed, "I have finished mine. How are you getting on?"
"Oh, much better. I have written ever so much. I am almost at the bottom of the page, and I think you will have to put another sheet in for me, if you will be so good."
"I'll do it with pleasure. May I see what you have written, or would you rather not?"