“Because I’ve read about dooks and I’d give my eyes to speak to one. I didn’t kinder believe there were such things outside of books and noospapers.”
“Well, you shall speak to my brother,” I said. “Come with me.” I led the way to the veranda, not without misgivings, for I did not know what sort of humour our invalid would be in. And he was in a wax about something.
“Bertie,” I said, “here is a young person, native to this beautiful wilderness, who wants to speak to you, being under the delusion that Dukes are quite unlike ordinary mortals.”
Bertie, who was muffled up in a horrid old overcoat, with white mits on his hands, glowered over his book.
“What rot!” he exclaimed. “What infernal rot. I should think you would have more sense. I wish you’d get me a decent novel. I hate these American things—all analysis, epigrams, scenery and virtue. America must be a provincial hole. Fetch me——”
But I had hastened the maiden away. As she was about to retire to the back regions, she stopped and turned her head.
“Well,” she remarked, “I guess I’m as good as he is, anyway. White mits! My land! He don’t make me feel nobody, only tired.” And she looked quite pleased as she flirted her skirts through the doorway.
This letter should go by parcel post!
My love to you.
Helen.