“Indeed and you’ll do nothing of the kind,” cried the maid, alarmed and reddening. “You’ll do nothing of the kind, Lennox, because—I’m writing to Charles.”
“A love-letter! Oh, I’ve got you with the goods on you!” exclaimed Bud, enchanted. “And what are you doing with your hurrah clothes on?”
“I like to put on my Sunday clothes when I’m writing Charles,” said the maid, a little put-about. “Do you think it’s kind of daft?”
“It’s not daft at all, it’s real ’cute of you; it’s what I do myself when I’m writing love-letters, for it makes me feel kind of grander. It’s just the same with poetry; I simply can’t make sure enough poetry unless I have on a nice frock and my hands washed.”
“You write love-letters!” said the maid, astounded.
“Yes, you poor perishing soul!” retorted Bud. “And you needn’t yelp. I’ve written scores of love-letters without stopping to take breath. Stop! stop!” she interrupted herself, and breathed an inward little prayer. “I mean that I write them—well, kind of write them—in my mind.” But this was a qualification beyond Kate’s comprehension.
“Then I wish you would give me a hand with this one,” said she despairingly. “All the nice words are so hard to spell, and this is such a bad pen.”
“They’re all bad pens; they’re all devilish,” said Bud, from long experience. “But I’d love to help you write that letter. Let me see—pooh! it’s dreffle bad, Kate. I can’t read a bit of it, almost.”
“I’m sure and neither can I,” said Kate, distressed.
“Then how in the world do you expect Charles to read it?” asked Bud.