I had hit her at last. She coloured and drew herself up. “I do not understand your term ‘aristocratic middle-class,’” she said icily. “And I can only assert definitely that we who give our brains and time and culture to the subject are setting and maintaining a standard that always will prevail.”
I turned to go and say good-bye to Mrs. Laurence, but I could not forbear a parting shot. I waved my hand at the company.
“I wonder they marry,” I said. “And I think it positively indecent of them to have children.”
20th July
I am very much alone these days. Bertie is so much better that he spends the entire day fishing or at the Club House, and frequently dines and spends the evening there as well. Agatha has discovered at least twenty neglected correspondents and writes as hard as Mrs. Laurence or Mr. Rolfs, all the morning. I do not mind that, for it keeps her in the house and I can receive any of the men who care to call; but every afternoon, Polly, she goes to Mrs. Chenoweth’s and plays whist, and I either have to shut myself up like a nun or walk in the wood alone. Of course I could defy the dear old soul, but that would be the end of an ideal domestic harmony, and as for Bertie he would be furious. Mr. Rogers is the only person privileged to walk alone with me, and I do not know whether he is flattered or not. I had heard a good deal about the liberty of American girls, but Mrs. Chenoweth assures me that that is all a mistake as far as the upper classes are concerned. Still, I have had a good many conversations with Mr. Nugent, and some day perhaps I’ll relate them to you. He calls in the evening and we wander off the veranda to the edge of the lake and stand there for an hour or so admiring the sunset, and once or twice we have met quite accidentally in the forest. After all, I do not own the trail down the mountain even if it is my favourite one. He certainly is interesting, Polly, although in so different a way from all the men I have ever known or read about that I really do not know whether I like him or not. He fascinates me, but that is his magnetism, the concentration of his preternaturally clever mind upon myself, the brilliant and unexpected things he says, and the truly delightful little attentions he pays me, when I know that he is full of restlessness and hardness, and ambition and nervous contempt of the details of life. But the moment he comes near me I feel protected and surrounded; I am possessed immediately to drop my shawl or handkerchief or worry about the punkies—dreadful little beasts that he keeps off very effectively with a fan or his hat. Once I made him go down on his knees and tie my shoe, merely because I wanted him to see that my foot was as small as any of his countrywomen’s, in spite of my five ft. seven, and much better shod. On another day I had a headache, and instead of remaining in bed I had Henriette arrange me luxuriously on a divan in the living-room, and received him when he called. I had an uncontrollable desire to see how he would act when I was ill. He was charming, in an abrupt, sincere, and wholly tactless way. I think if I had known others like him or had known him about five years I should almost fall in love with him; but how we cling to our ideals! Independence of thought! We are all creatures of traditions.
I may just as well tell you first as last, Polly, that I am sure both Mr. Rogers and Mr. Nugent have made up their minds to marry me. Agatha is blind and Bertie amused, for he cannot imagine me falling in love with anything un-English and new. You see, I look so—well, traditional, few know or suspect that I am impetuous and full of curiosity and love of novelty inside. Of course, as I said, I am in a way as traditional as I look, but in another I’m not. I don’t know if I have expressed myself clearly.
I am sure that Mr. Rogers and all of them think that he has the better chance, because he is so cold and calm and correct. He really is charming in his way and I think I might have had rather a jolly little flirtation with him if Mr. Nugent had not happened to be a guest of the Club. But he talks to me about things that interest me so much more, and he has made me talk to him about myself as I never talked before—even to you. If I could remember all of the nonsense we have talked I’d write it to you, but you know I never did have any memory.
The other day a year-old doe mysteriously appeared in our ice-house with my name printed on a card lying on its chest. I know that either Mr. R. or Mr. N. shot it for me, but I do not dare thank one or the other or even hint the subject: the game laws are so severe that it would be like a breach of confidence. But it has made all other meat insipid and we enjoyed it quite enough to compensate the offender for the risk he ran. It was one evening when both were calling that I regretted being obliged to wait till September for the game I like best.
Mr. N’s first name is Luke.
22nd July