POLLY TO A. D.
Black Horse Farm on the Hudson,
December.
Here we are at the Farm, Aunt, Checkers, and I. Although our engagement may be announced in Rome, my stern relative says we must wait until we’re settled a bit before announcing it in New York. I was going to give a luncheon and tell everyone, but she suddenly dashed away into the country with me in her wake, flying like Alice through the Looking Glass after the Mad Queen.
You would like this place, dear,—an old Colonial house of brick with wings and white trimmings, surrounded by great elms overlooking the Hudson. The furniture is Chippendale, queer ancient panoramic wall paper makes a background for some delightful eighteenth-century prints, and fireplaces ablaze with logs are in every room. I’ve been secretly wondering if we couldn’t have our honeymoon here. Do you fancy the idea, dearest?
There is still a sheet of paper left right under my nose, staring up as much as to say, “Why don’t you use me? Why not write more to your secretary?” Well, it will have to be in pencil, for to use ink will mean going down stairs where there are still people dashing about; while up in my bedroom I am quite alone except for John Sullivan, our bull pup.
Isn’t it perfectly pathetic to be left all solitary this long cold winter with the only boy I love so far away?
P. S. Is Charlton really so ill that you do not like to leave him? No other reason? You wrote that Mona Lisa had disappeared from your life. Are you sure she has no successor?