But will she marry him? Oh! Many moths have fluttered about that flame. But she is so subtle. And in addition to her indisputable magnetism she has developed fascination into a fine art. Of course she has scented out all Bertie’s weak points and flattered them. I can hear her discoursing about the solemn responsibilities of the hereditary legislator, and that is what is haunting Bertie most at present. Of course she knows all about Dad, and her dulcet enthusiasms on that convenient weakness—Oh, dear! Agatha says they have been almost inseparable since the afternoon she arrived. She did not lose a minute!
He actually asked me if he could take her out in my gondola. I felt like telling him to take her out and drown her, but I gave my consent as graciously as I could, and came into the house to think. I dare not go to the forest, for I know that Mr. N. is lying in wait for me and I feel certain that after this gondola declaration he will press his suit; and when he does plant himself on both feet in the middle of the trail and I on the wrong side—Oh, heaven!
I induced Agatha to go over to the tennis court so that I could not receive Mr. Rogers if he called. But for some time I could not even write to you, I could only storm up and down the living-room and try to think of some way to foil that woman and deliver Bertie. Fancy having her for a sister-in-law! And she would radiate a subtle triumph till the day of her death. But the real—underlying—point is that she is not the wife for Bertie. He must marry an intelligent woman who will give herself to him and his career, and this one would be entirely wrapped in her own petty ambitions.
It suddenly occurred to me that Miss Page had promised to spend the first two weeks of September with me. She is still at Chipmunk Lake, for the other women do not leave for two days yet. The buckboard had not gone. I wrote her a note, imploring her to come at once as I was bored and lonely. Then I bribed the driver to take it to her to-day, and he said he would wait and bring her back. She is far more beautiful than Mrs. C., and younger. She may not be so subtle but she has all the fascination of a buoyant and unaffected coquette. And she is worth six of Mrs. C. as regards character and sincerity. Not, alas! that that adds to one’s power over man. But I am hoping that Bertie will contrast her real brightness with Mrs. C.’s platitudes, and discover that the widow is boring, that he will succumb to Miss Page’s superior beauty, and that propinquity will do its work. If only it doesn’t all happen before she gets here! Mrs. C. has had him in her pocket for three hours—in my gondola. She has on a white frock and a scarlet shawl and a red poppy in her hair. There is no denying that she is hideously attractive. Oh, Polly, how I wish you were here!
To add to my burdens Bertie gave me, this morning—he mercifully forgot it last night—an impassioned epistle from Mr. Carlisle. His mother is better and he is returning to Chipmunk Lake for the hunting season. He says he shall devote three days a week to deer and the rest to me—that if they won’t invite him to the Club House he’ll camp on the next lake, which is only a mile away and on State lands. But of course they’ll invite him to the Club House. Oh, Polly! Do you think any woman ever was in such a tangle before!
On the whole I think I’ll go out into the forest and talk to Mr. N. about it. I must talk to somebody or I’ll have brain fever. And I’m used to diverting his mind—“standing him off,” as they say here. And I want sympathy.
This is really good-bye. I won’t write another line till I am in a more cheerful state of mind—induced by Miss Page’s triumph over the widow—for I do not want to add to your worries.
Helen.
P. S.—Roddy Spencer will arrive on one of the Saturday steamers.