Don’t you believe “that the editors are asking about you constantly, and are more than anxious to see your work.” It’s not so.
Now get mad again, and when that [old-time] smile comes back, read on further.
Mein Gott! what a recollection you have of me! “A tall, slender lad with nice eyes—awfully quiet, and——Oh, I’ll admit the exceedingly fond.” Was it a mystery why? Well, I dunno, except because you were so sweet and devilish.
To-day I am as slender as anybody five feet eight and weighing 175 pounds could be, and I’ve sharp, mean eyes. (I told Bobby that he had nice eyes because I couldn’t remember the colour.) I’ve been taken for a detective lots of times, but I haven’t changed so much inside, and if you were on the twentieth floor of the Waldorf-Astoria to-night, and had a string long enough, I’ll bet I’d have a magnolia or two and a box of candy to tie to the end of it.
You speak of meeting old Tom in your letter. Well, just a few days afterward I got a letter from him talking about old days. Said he’d been in New York often and might be back. Lordy! I’d like to see him again. (Back in the old days at Roseboro Tom was one of the whistlers under my window the night I got the magnolias.)
Well, now, Carrie, what do you care if Tom pays attention to somebody and likes her? Ain’t that the only thing there is that’s worth two cents? Doesn’t the gentleman that takes you out driving and boat riding ever—ever—talk about how nice the moon looks? Oh, Carrie, never get so you feel like running down such foolishness. After everything is added and subtracted, that is the only remainder.
On the next page I find the very wise remark of your friend Miss Baxter (whom I would be glad to consider mine—I mean mein freund!) that you can’t write a love story because you know nothing about it. Miss Baxter is altogether wrong but none the less charming. That led me to inclose you a little story of mine—a thing that is apparently egotistical to do—that settles the question beyond all controversy. Read it some time when you are up in the arbour about twilight when they are calling you to supper—but don’t go.
On page three of your letter I observe a reference to your picture. Sure, Mike! I asked you for your picture. And I’ve got it, ain’t I? I’d like to see you get it back!
Oh, Carrie, if you “knowed” how folks try to get letters from me and can’t, you’d appreciate the delightful toil I take in writing to you. Ordinarily it’s just like laying bricks for me to write even a business letter, but when I write to you—lemme see what to say—it’s like lifting the lightest feather from the breast of an eider duck and watching it float through the circumambient atmosphere. (That strike you hard enough?)
I’ll tell you what, Carrie—(now don’t get mad, Caroline) I need a boss. For the last month I’ve been so no-account and lazy that I haven’t turned out a line. And yet, I don’t think it’s exactly my fault. I’ve felt kind of melancholy and dreamy and lonesome, and I don’t sleep well of nights. Once I dreamed that I had a magnolia for you and you turned up your nose at it and went away with Jeff—you remember Jeff?