Friday morning.
Dear Araminta:
Have you heard me speak of the Outlaws? They are artists and writers who live beyond the pale of convention, and in an atmosphere painful to the wealthy, purse-proud darlings of our nation. In order to enjoy their outlawry unmolested, they wish to produce club quarters from which artistic elegance is by no means to be banished. Such quarters cost money. To raise the necessary funds a masked ball will take place two weeks from today, and those who come to dance to the tunes must help to pay the piper.
This means that it has been proposed to add one or two tributary features to the main function. Remembering your wizardry at palm reading, I concluded that your raven locks and appealing eyes would be a perfect match for a gypsy costume, and that a dear little gypsy who could tell wise people their virtues and foolish people their fortunes would be a priceless asset. I know you don't believe in palmistry any more than I do, but isn't it your very scepticism that enables you to practice the art with a dash of diablerie that carries conviction?
If you won't accept, I may be obliged to play the gypsy myself. Can you picture my straw-colored plaits in such an Oriental role? But I know your artistic sense will not permit me to do with amateurish bungling what you can do with professional skill. Besides, two peerless young gentlemen, whom I could name if I chose, will pine away with melancholy if you refuse.
Before you answer "yes" or "no," come and spend Wednesday afternoon with
Yours devotedly,
Cornelia.
Mrs. Barr turned the letter over to Emily, who read it while her mother grimly closed the Bible and waited.
"I thought as much!" cried the young lady, as she reached the signature. "It's from Cornelia Covert."