XVI
FROM MARJORIE
Sunday, May 13, 1917.
Dearest Family:—
Here I am out at Saint-Germain again, this time quite differently, though. Betty Colt and I planned several weeks ago to have a day in the country together; we have both been so busy that we haven’t got round to it until to-day. We planned to take the 8.04 train out, but, owing to a thunder-shower at five this morning,—which caused me to rise and go out on the balcony to rescue our precious chaise-longue, getting soaked in the process,—and its looking so dismal and so like permanent rain, I went back to bed and slept until 8.15! So we did not take the 8.04, but the 10.04. It rained a little on the way out, but now, after a delicious and filling dinner, we are sitting in the garden, writing at one of those little green iron tables. For a nation that has such good taste in most things, I think it remarkable the lack of taste the French have in garden furniture! Betty having never been out here before, the first thing we did was to go out to the Terrace. On the way, we passed a Ford standing by the roadside, which had a familiar air. The number also seemed like ours,—so I pulled out my license card (which I keep with me always,—I am so afraid of ever missing an opportunity to drive through not having papers), and found that it was our “other car,”—in other words, the car Miss Curtis hires from Mrs. Gage and runs for the Association and for herself over Sundays. You see, your license over here is a complicated affair, and has, among other things, the numbers of the car or cars you drive. I am saving, by the bye, all the extra papers that I have had to possess since I left home. It will be fun going over them together when I get back. Being clever children, we decided that Miss Curtis must be near by,—if her car was here,—so we rambled around and found her, and also Mr. and Mrs. Bowditch and Mrs. Sturgis and Miss Sturgis, all lunching at the François Ier. We went in and said “How do you do?” to them, warned them how expensive the place is, and, after leaving a few chocolates, we went on to the Bois. We get a marvelous variety of chocolates out here—pure chocolate all the way through, called disque d’or, on account of a little daub or touch of real gold on each one. Somewhat the same idea as that eau de vie with beaten gold in it that we used to have sometimes.
I intend to stand Betty up this afternoon and get some good pictures of her to send you. She is such a dear. I hate to think of her leaving Paris in three weeks, but Dr. Gibbons goes to Houlgate for the summer, and, strange as it may seem, he takes his secretary “mit” him! One comfort is that she is going to Houlgate, which is on the ocean, and she has already asked me to spend a week-end with her. This means that I will get a swim—hurrah! My prospects of having a vacation this summer seem to diminish as the time goes on. Mrs. Shurtleff and Mrs. Newsom are going to take two months off, but with Mrs. Sturgis gone (she sails this Saturday with her mother and father), I guess that the workers who remain will simply take week-ends off, or perhaps a week. We are now planning a wonderful week-end party, starting for Houlgate early some Saturday morning—Rootie, Elizabeth Baldwin, Mr. Griffiths, Bryant, Simmons, Mayo, and myself—in an auto, arriving in the afternoon, and getting a swim, some tennis, some food, a peek at Deauville probably, playing with Betty, and all coming back either Sunday afternoon or Monday morning. Doesn’t that sound pretty nice? I haven’t the slightest idea that we will ever really do this—but we plan it at our Friday night parties every week now. If we do go, Heaven knows what I expect to wear.
“Bettina” at Saint-Germain
Le Cèdre at Saint-Germain
I am wondering just what I planned in my mind to wear this spring, when I left home. My faithful purple suit continues. It is, if possible, more faded than ever. Rootie has offered me every conceivable kind of a bribe to have it cleansed, and I think I may! I have bought a hat, round and black with feathers curling round the edge, which, with my black silk dress (which has turned from my only evening dress into my street dress), is my costume for teas! I have one new waist; otherwise I have nothing. To-morrow being my day off, I plan to shop. I must get some thinner stockings, these woolen ones are killing me by inches. You just try cranking a Ford car for hours at a time in woolen stockings! I have got to get up my courage and buy some white skirts, although I hate to—waists are bad enough. It is a bit disconcerting to be told that I wear a 46! Why, why, don’t we all use the same system of measuring clothes, coal, essence, and lots of things? It would save so much trouble.