The hillside’s dew-pearled”——
I am just back from taking a look at old Camel Back. The morning’s like an opal—it’s all a shifting mist shot through with sunshine. None of the mountains have shaken off their last night’s mist-blankets but that brave old blessed Camel Back. He knew I’d be up, and he gave me royal greeting. “Well,” he seemed to say, “haven’t I poured all the treasures of the earth perfumed with all the scents of Araby into your outstretched hands?”
I meant to tell Bobby about Camel Back—for so long I have told my fancies to a pictured Bobby—but when I thought of it last night, just before he left for the “dinky” little hotel with Dicky’s doctor—he was busy fitting a piece of cardboard in which he had cut a round hole on a certain finger of my left hand, and, anyway, it is not easy to tell fancies to an eager man who is murmuring realities in one’s ears—like this: “Dearest one, will you hurry, oh, hurry, and get the gingham, and the barred muslin, and the bias bombazine fixed up, and let’s get married quick.”
The morning’s at seven. At eight all of us, Bobby and Dicky’s doctor, Ellinor, too, are going to breakfast in my rose garden. Mammy planned it last night. She came to the sitting-room door and asked them all with the manner of a duchess.
I go to the kitchen door—broiled chickens and waffles, strawberries and cream. “Can I help you, mammy?”
“Mammy don’t need no help. This come while you was gallivantin’ up the lane.” The big, bold, square envelope sets my heart to leaping:
Dearest:
I looked into my thought reservoir last night after I left you and discovered that if I hadn’t ever met you before I would have loved you just the same. Is that disloyalty to Carrie with the gold braids and the capricious moods? No, by my halidome, no! I have two in my heart—two girls—one the ideal of romantic youth, the other, the completer, sweeter, better beloved Caroline, but no less an ideal. Am I not the richest man in the world? If this be bigamy, give me bigamy or give me death.
P.S. I didn’t answer that question last night. Why did the cabby swear at you? Cabbies always swear unless you tip them. But never mind, hereafter I’ll be on hand to do the tipping for you.
P.P.S. I want you, my honey.