I often wonder what I'll do with my decree when I get it—I can't wear it on my finger, and it certainly isn't the thing for gold leaf and a shadow box—Oh! I shan't waste time placing it; perhaps Carlton will find a pigeon-hole for it somewhere.
I haven't written to Bern in days, but I don't care; I never considered a banker as one of the human race, anyway. Poor Bern; he's thrown out like a bill in Parliament! Beaten by a blackball called Carlton—I'd hate to see him now. Roland the Furious is charming in a poem, but in a drawing room, prosaic and expensive.
Carlton and I went to church Sunday and were refused communion—the dear good Bishop has but one eye, so he sees things half way. I said: "If this is God's table, I want communion, if it's the Episcopal, I don't." In his sermon he called divorcees "social lepers, social filthiness," and said: "After the new law goes into effect, we'll have no more dumping here." He's an old pop-gun that shoots spit-balls, so the wounds he makes are not fatal. Carlton refuses to go to church here or anywhere else again, and will once more trudge along his Sunday field of Bacchus cultivated by Venus.
By the way, after June 1st, all divorcees will be required to stay one year, then they won't come at all. Oklahoma had a hunch and changed her law back to three months. Now the colony will transplant itself, then watch the death agony of Sioux Falls. She's foolish—foolish! The Easterners have made this burg what it is. Take away our influence and she'll sink into nothingness again. Some of us are bad, but all of us are not; however, the Sioux Falls gossips make no distinction. They lift their $2.98 skirts when they pass us, for fear of inoculation by the bacillus divorce. I often wonder if they realize that the prejudice is returned with compound interest.
When any new gossip is born, they fly around the streets like the beads of a rosary when the string is snapped. Perhaps you haven't noticed how serious this letter is. I'm frowning as I write—a habit most bad on the eyebrows—surest of signs that I am sinking again into the quagmire of love.
I have felt my pulse so often and know all the symptoms—which I more than enjoy scrutinizing—not even the finest emotion escapes me. I believe that I play the game well for I am still unjaded, which is unusual with so much over-feeding.
Is your new fur coat unborn lamb, or did it happen? Speaking of possessions—my appendix still gives me ample proof of its constancy. The blue devils are chasing me today and I am wearing the expression that sits on the lips of every portrait in every exhibition. I smile to keep from crying, because if I cry—I'm lost!
As I am of the experienced elite of society that sups, I must bid you adieu—I promise more jocosity in my next.