I thank our lucky stars (Jack and I have a skyful) that we're going to do another trip before we start for New England. Of course I want my ewe-lion (I've named him that behind his back since he turned warrior) to see all of my dear country he can before we have to sail again; but it's too bad such a lovely part as New England should be infested by aunts, isn't it? It's called the "Ideal Tour," I believe—through the White Mountains and some green and blue ones, etc.—but for Jack and me it will have a drawback. People used to be torn to death by wild horses. That's not done in the best circles now; but it's perfectly admissible, alas, to be talked to death by wild aunts.
I'm charmed that you're so interested in Patsey Moore and Peter Storm. The latter, as I wrote, has developed into her "Lightning Conductor." Indeed, in some ways Jack and he are alike: for you know Jack "Brown-ed" himself in order to conduct me; and I can't help thinking that our Stormy Petrel isn't as Stormy as he's painted. Now I know him so well, I don't let my mind dwell on the possibility of his being less worthy of our intense interest than he seems. If there's anything hidden, it's "buried treasure," such as we hope against hope may exist at Kidd's Pines.
It's not very long, as the crow flies—I mean the post—since I wrote you last; but I do think more things can happen in America to the square minute than anywhere else in the world. Especially at Kidd's Pines! It's like living in a "movie" when they are running the reels off fast. Why, our reels go so quickly you hardly know what's happened to the "walking men and women", and it's even difficult to tell the hero from the villain.
That sounds frivolous, but it's serious really. I should be very sad if I weren't hoping that Jack and Peter Storm and I may be able to combine together and stop things from going all to bits.
At present everything to do with "heart interest" is horrid—except some things that are funny. And the people they're happening to can't see the fun in them as the outsiders—Jack and I—can. Naturally there would be heaps of heart interest, all over the place, wherever Patty was; and that would be all right if Larry weren't simply followed around by it too, the way actor-managers are by the spotlight. When we were doing our delicious motor run around Long Island, getting acquainted with the old whalers, and Indian chieftains, and golfers and millionairesses, it was sweet to see how Pat was unconsciously taming our Stormy Petrel to eat out of her hand. Even Jack saw it happening, so it must have been pretty obvious, because men never can see other people's love stories going on under their noses. I knew as well as if he'd told me, that Peter Storm would rather be torpedoed again than fall in love and settle down. Besides though none but the brave deserve the fair, few but the rich ever get them. And I suppose the Stormy One can't be rich, whatever else he may be. Perhaps he was once, and lost all his money; for he certainly has the look of a banished prince, and the long-distance manner of one, if he doesn't like anybody or is bored. But strong as he may be in many ways, he could not resist Pat when he was in a motor car with her day after day. Jack and I would have bet (if that hadn't been callous) as to whether he'd cave in far enough to propose; and if I had bet I should have lost. But it wouldn't have been my fault. It would have been Ed Caspian's. Jimmy Payne at his worst wasn't a patch on him.
How the man managed it I can't conceive (as Pat is of an almost exaggerated and clamlike loyalty), but she arrived at Kidd's Pines at the end of that short trip engaged to Caspian!
I didn't know till the next day; didn't know that, or the rest. You see, we finished up with a moonlight run from the gorgeous house I wrote you a postcard about. We were late, for the Faust-cry in our hearts was communicated to our speed: "Linger awhile: thou art so fair!" Jack and I didn't stop at Kidd's Pines at all, though they asked us in to have night-blooming sandwiches and such things. We went straight on to Awepesha and slept the sleep of the moderately just. Pat had promised to 'phone in the morning, and did. She merely asked how we were, and said she was well; but I could tell from her voice that something dreadful was the matter. I dashed over in the car before Jack was dressed, ready with an excuse about a book I wished to borrow, and was so early that I found myself colliding—nay, telescoping—with the breakfast brigade of the "hotel."
Pat doesn't break her fast with the paying guest, however: she's an early bird, though her pet aversion is a worm. I sent a message to her room (the smallest in the house) and was invited to go up. There was a cloud of cigar smoke in the air, and as Pat doesn't smoke, I deduced a miraculously matinal call from Larry. That alone was an omen of catastrophe, for Larry is either up all night or not before 10 A. M. And Pat's face was worse than an omen. I could see behind her poor little smile of greeting, right into her mind, as if her head had been a watch with nothing but glass over the works.
"Good gracious, darling, whatever is it?" I gasped.
"Nothing," said she, "except—except that Tom has toothache, and I'm sorry for him."