I really can't think yet what I shall say to her. It's worrying me. I feel guilty, somehow, I don't know why.
Mrs. Norton suggested taking me out shopping and sight-seeing this afternoon. Sir Lionel proposed going with us. His sister was astonished, and so was I, especially after what she had said about his not being interested in women's affairs. "Just to make sure that you take my tip about Bond Street," he remarked. "And Bond Street used to amuse me—when I was twenty. I think it will amuse me now—to see how it and I have changed."
So we are going, all three. Rather awful about the gray serge and sailor hat, isn't it? I felt self-respecting in them at Versailles, and even in Paris, because there I was a singing teacher; in other words, nobody. But in London I'm supposed to be an heiress. And here, at the Ritz, such beautiful beings come to lunch, in dresses which they have evidently been poured into with consummate skill and incredible expense.
I tasted Pêche Melba to-day, for the first time. It made me wish for you. But it didn't seem to go at all with gray serge and a cotton blouse. I ought to have been a Gorgeous Being, with silk linings.
How am I to support the shopping ordeal? Supposing Mrs. Norton chooses me things (oh horror!). They're sure to be hideous, but they may be costly. As it says in an English society paper which Madame de Maluet takes: "What should A. do?"
If only Telepathy were a going concern, you would answer that Hard Case for
Your poor, puzzled
"A.," alias "E."
P. S. Nothing more heard or seen of the White Girl's Burden, Richard of that ilk. I was afraid of his turning up at the Grand Hotel in Paris, or even at the station to "see us off," but he didn't. He has disappeared into space, and is welcome to the whole of it. I should nearly have forgotten him, if I didn't wonder sometimes what his mysterious profession is.