On some subjects, I know, sympathy seems impossible; for instance, Arthur likes music, but detests concerts: while you, on the other hand, while not caring for music are particularly fond of concerts. A little mutual indulgence on both sides will soon put matters straight.
After a slight dispute never hold out an instant after he shows repentance. Also, never avoid showing jealousy when you see he expects it. This is a valuable "tip." False pride on this subject is a fruitful source of discord.
Do not disagree with his general principles. On the contrary, second them; and give him convincing reasons for his own opinions. When it comes to a particular application of them, that you really object to you are sure to know how to act. Believe everything he says, and never correct him about details, especially not if you know you are right. I don't think I need advise you not to bring out authorities to show he is wrong in the etymology of a word or any other subject of discussion, for that is absolutely suicidal, and you would be beyond the pale of reason if you dreamt of such a thing.
Since your cousin Freddy has been staying with you, I can understand you find it rather awkward. I know Freddy; with his love of practical jokes (for which you, too, I am certain, have a secret penchant), and his determined chatter about his rowing, his riding, and why he didn't back the winner, and how it is he missed the Diamond Sculls, and so on, ad lib. I can quite fancy he doesn't get on with Arthur, whom he must despise for not having put a hair-brush in his bed the very first evening.
You must have had a difficult day that Sunday that young De Verney and his sister came down. De Verney, rosy-cheeked and babyish-looking, but about whom a morbid interest centres, because he collects jewels, and was said at one time to take morphia; and Miss de Verney, who "writes," and is utterly amazed and contemptuous when she finds someone who has never heard of her. If it were not for your mother, who forgets people's characteristics, and explains them to each other a little wrong—which often saves the situation—the day would have ended in utter want of harmony. De Verney left, pitying you, and his sister feeling sorry for Arthur. I am glad you removed—though only just in time—an absurd booby-trap Freddy had placed in Arthur's room, because Arthur had said he "romped"; and when you and your future husband were alone, he said he hoped your companions in the future would be of a very different calibre to your present friends.
The depressing word "calibre," while cheering Arthur left you in lowest spirits, but of course you agreed, and then had a toboganning match with Freddy the next morning before breakfast, and before Arthur had left his room. Write and tell me how you are going on. Is any time fixed for the termination of the engagement? I mean, of course, by marriage.
Your affectionate friend, Marjorie.
Maximus Orellius.—The author of John Bull and His Island has honoured a South Wales Daily News interviewer with many interesting personal details. Mons. Blouët has a rooted aversion to chairmen, because "they give a sort of formal tone to proceedings which I don't care for." Poor chairmen! After all, this is only what they are intended for. Perhaps another Max—yclept Nordan—can give some explanation for this distinctly morbid dislike. One unlucky chairman is overwhelmed with ridicule because, in an introductory speech, he actually forgot the French humorist's name. "Max O'Rell" contemplates changing his profession to that of playwright, and has already written a play which he airily describes as "a high-class comedy, dealing with the British aristocracy." However, this is not his first dramatic venture, for, says he, "in 1870 I had a comedy produced in Paris, but the war breaking out my play came to what I think was an untimely end. I have been repeatedly urged to write for the stage, but have hitherto been content with the success I have attained in other directions." Vivat modestia!