I knew you well enough. . . .
Oh, Lights that dazzle and blind me—
It is no friend, but Love!
A. Mary F. Robinson.
Hotel Prince de Galles, Cannes,
April 27th.My dearest Gerty,—You shall have a letter to-day, though it is more than you deserve. Why do you never write to me? Now that you have safely married your young people, you have positively no excuse. By the by, the poor innocent mater read the announcement of the wedding out loud at breakfast to-day.—Fred got crimson and choked in his coffee, and I had a silent fit of laughter. However, he is all right by now, playing tennis with a mature lady with yellow hair, whom he much affects, and whom papa scornfully denominates a "hotel hack."
All this, let me tell you, is preliminary. I have a piece of news for you, but somehow it won't come out. Not that it is anything to be ashamed of. The fact is, Gerty, I am going the way of all flesh, and am about to be married. Believe me, it is the most sensible course for a woman to take. I hope you will follow my good example.
Do you remember Sapho's words: "J'ai tant aimé; j'ai besoin d'être aimée"? Do not let the quotation shock you; neither take it too seriously, I think Mr. Graham—you know Lawrence Graham?—does care as caring goes and as men go. He came out here, on purpose, a fortnight ago, and yesterday we settled it between us....
Gertrude read no further; the thin, closely-written sheet fell from her hand; she sat staring vaguely before her.
Conny's letter, with its cheerfulness, partly real, partly affected, hurt her taste, and depressed her rather unreasonably.
This was the hardest feature of her lot: for the people she loved, the people who had looked up to her, she had been able to do nothing at all.
She was sitting alone in the dismantled studio on this last day of April. To-morrow Lucy and Frank would have returned from Cornwall, and have taken possession of the new home.
Her own plans for the present were vague.