I am not built for bun worries, be they out of doors or in, and declined on the plea of important work. Besides, I saw by the look in Patsey's eyes that she also intended to refuse. I hoped that through some remarkable coincidence we might meet in the garden "at home," as we had the day before, but Caspian caught the coincidence this time, so I sulked in the house with man's most faithful dumb companion, a pipe. Caspian didn't stay with my little lady for long, so I hope she refused him and got it over with. Anyhow, she was in a delicious mood all the way to Kidd's Pines, as you may have assumed from the tone and indeed the very existence of this letter. We talked of impersonal things, never of ourselves and seldom of each other, and she was not as gay as when we began the trip, yet—never had she been so dear.
I began this letter with a partial promise to abide by your advice; but if you harshly tell me it's too late to change things, I'm afraid I shall go full speed ahead just the same. I won't, however, decide till I hear from you—not because I'm patient, but because the girl mustn't be "rushed" in any case. Besides, I shall very likely not see her to-day. I dropped the party at the door of Kidd's Pines in the dead middle of the night (forgot to tell you Caspian didn't come with us, but turned tail and went to New York: another sign!), garaged the Grayles-Grice, and biked to the village. I'll now try to sleep for an hour or two—less because I'm tired than because I want to dream myself back in the path of the moon, where walks Romance to greet me. My bed here, by the by, usually reminds me of a rack out of commission. But to-day I don't care. I shall find it a bed of roses.
Write as soon as you've thought things over, please. Or, better still, wire: "Advise yes," or—but I won't think of the alternative.
Either way, however, I'll still be yours loyally,
Pietro.
P.S. Can't sleep, can't dream. Something tells me all isn't well at Kidd's Pines. I had forebodings before we started that there'd be ructions when we got back, but I'd mislaid them under a thousand other thoughts. Seems a long time ago! But while I was trying to sleep just now, this came into my mind as if a voice spoke it: "Bridge the gulf that parts you from your wish, and you can walk across." I wish it were your voice said that, old man!
P.P.S. Talk of women with their postscripts! They're not in it with me. I keep leaping off the gridiron—I mean out of bed—again and again to add a word that threatens to burst my brain if bottled up. This time shall be the last! I only want to assure you that I'm not brooding over any coup of revenge against Caspian. My personal dislike of him has nothing to do with my attitude, except that the more I see of the worm the more I see what a worm he is. Not only is he unworthy to crawl in the same atmosphere with Miss Moore (don't smile sarcastically at that expression. I like it!) but he's more fitted for underground conditions than any caterpillar I ever met. Caterpillars change to butterflies. Worms, as far as my knowledge goes, are changeless. I don't feel revengeful against him. But I don't feel conscientious and dutiful for a cent!