LETTERS FROM A FIANCEE.
Dear Marjorie,—Thanks for your kind letter. I was hoping you would be pleased about my engagement.
It is most curious you should have guessed, without my telling you, and without even seeing his photograph, that his name is Arthur. I must tell you more about him. He is tall and handsome, also, not at all commonplace. He looks a little like the old prints one sees in seaside lodging-houses, called "With the Stream," or "Against the Stream," or "Good-bye," or "The Return of the Black Brunswicker." He looks, in fact, far more romantic than the young men one generally sees: and the key-note (if you will forgive the expression) of his character is his great dislike to modern ideas, especially to anything he calls "cynical." I met him first at Lady Lyon Taymer's, but he has often explained to me that that was entirely accidental; he was "taken" there; he dislikes her set, and has an especial aversion to the clever young men of the day. He has an excessive—and I must say I think unnecessary—terror of being mistaken for one: and says that if he had not heard it was the very latest thing he would never read anything but Scott. To the bicycle and cigarette, for women, he has an equally strong objection, and I think he often pretends not to see a joke because he has a nervous suspicion of its being what he would call the New Humour. In the evening, on the balcony, he quotes Byron, and in the morning, in the garden, he reads Wilkie Collins or Mrs. Henry Wood. He says he hopes I shall spend a great deal of time in the still-room, to which I heartily assent, though neither of us know exactly what a still-room is, but it sounds quiet. Women, Arthur thinks, should preserve fruits, and a lady-like demeanour, and do plain needle-work, or perhaps "tatting." Art embroidery he looks on with doubt, and I believe he considers it fast. When I told him he seemed anxious I should not reap without having learnt to sew, he seemed hurt and we hastily changed the subject. I was playing croquet with him—(croquet he approves)—when he was lecturing on fruit-preserving. "Shall you really expect me to make jam?" I said. "Would you be cross if I did?" he asked, tenderly. "Crosse! yes! and Blackwell, too, if you like," I answered in my (occasionally) flippant way, which I always regret instantly after. Arthur threw down his mallet. "This—Gladys—this is the sort of thing which—which—," &c. We had a short quarrel, and a long reconciliation. Arthur is a great dear, you must understand, and I am very happy. He does not show me the book of dried flowers nearly so often now, and has written some verses about me, he is going to show them to me to-night.
Arthur is very interesting when he talks of me; it is when he discusses abstract subjects—such as chemistry, or big sleeves—that he is not quite so amusing. He is dreadfully prejudiced about sleeves. Do you think he will gradually get accustomed to them? I think he will by the time they have quite gone out!
I am sure you will like dear Arthur. Of course one has to understand him. When he came down to stay with us, I said, "You must be very tired after your short journey," and I was surprised how much it annoyed him! Don't say anything of that sort to him—at first. He is apt to take things—just a little—seriously. It is rather a charming quality in a man to whom one is engaged—don't you think so? Such a love as ours cannot fail to have an ennobling effect: as Arthur says, it seems to lift us above all thoughts of this world. Write soon. I am longing to hear about the new skirts, and to show you my sapphire ring.
Your affectionate friend, Gladys.
From Our Own Schoolboy, a Student of Lemprière.—Sir,—I have heard Mr. Arthur Balfour spoken of as "the Lœda of the House of Commons." Who is its Jupiter?