Rue Chapeau de Marie Antoinette,
July 6th. Early Morning
Dearest Dame Wisdom: You ought to be Adviser-in-Chief to Crowned Heads. You'd be invaluable; worth any salary. What a shame you aren't widely known: a sort of public possession! But for my sake I'm glad you aren't, because if you were discovered you'd never have a spare minute to advise me.
Of course, dear, if you hadn't reached your conclusions just as you did about this step you wouldn't have counselled, or even allowed, me to take it. And I will remember every word you say. I'll do exactly as you tell me to do. So now, don't worry, any more than you would if I were an experienced and accomplished young parachutist about to make a descent from the top of the Eiffel tower.
It's eight o'clock, and I've satisfied my soul with your letter and my body with its morning roll and coffee. When I've finished scribbling this in pencil to you, I shall pack, and be ready—for anything.
By the way, that reminds me. What a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive, etc.
Won't the Dragon think it queer that his rich ward should make no better toilettes than I shall be able to produce—after living at Versailles, practically in Paris, with a huge amount of spending money—for a schoolgirl?
I thought of that difficulty only last night for the first time, after I was in bed, and was tempted to jump up and review my wardrobe. But it was unnecessary. Not only could I call to mind in the most lively way every dress I have, but, I do believe, every dress I ever did have since my frocks were let down or done over from yours. I suppose that ought to make me feel rather young, oughtn't it? To remember every dress I ever owned? But it doesn't. I'll be twenty-one this month, you know—a year older than you were when your ears were gladdened by my first howl. I'm sure it was unearthly, yet that you said at once to Dad: "The dear child is going to be musical!"
But to return to the wardrobe of the heiress's understudy. It consists of my every-day tailor-made, two white linen coats and skirts, a darned collection (I don't mean that profanely) of summer blouses, and the everlasting, the immortal, black evening dress. Is it three or four years old? I know it was my first black, and I did feel so proud and grown-up when you said I might have it.
You'll be asking yourself: "Where is the blue alpaca she bought in the Bon Marché sale, which was in the act of being made when I left for la Suisse?" Up to now I've concealed from you the tragical fact that that horrid little Mademoiselle Voisin completely spoiled it. I was so furious I could have killed her if she'd been on the spot. There is no rage like the dress rage, is there?