We are just home from the wedding and I wish you could see Lupe's dewy-eyed joy. I ache with tenderness for her. I know now why mothers always weep at weddings—I very nearly did myself, and I know I shall in ten years or so, when I see my Dolores Tristeza, standing like that, star-eyed, quivering-lipped.
When she slips away in the dusk to-night I shall put a period to my thought of María de Guadalupe Rosalía Merced Castello. I want to keep this fragrant memory of her.
"Yet, ah, that spring should vanish with the rose! That youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!"
I refuse to fancy my pussy-willow girl, my pearl maiden, in ten years, with a mustache and no corsets and eight weak-coffee-colored babies! Adíos, Lupe mía! Go with God!
Everything is in readiness. The dear old Budders, trembling with excitement, will be waiting at the train. As for me—as for my own little affair—I'm pushing that away, until my novios are safe. I'm pushing away that moment on the balcony, when we hear the train whistle. Sally, I don't know! This lovely, lazy, ardent land works moon magic on staid professional women!
Mistily,
Jane.
Guadalajara,
Two Days Later.
Sally Dearest,
It was mean to make you wait for the next thrilling installment of my Mexican best-seller, but this is the first moment when I've thought I could put down, coherently and cohesively, what happened. Happened is a palely inadequate word;—burst,—exploded—erupted, would be better!