I am very much alone these days. Bertie is so much better that he
spends the entire day fishing or at the Club House, and frequently
dines and spends the evening there as well. Agatha has discovered
at least twenty neglected correspondents and writes as hard as Mrs.
Laurence or Mr. Rolfs, all the morning. I do not mind that, for it
keeps her in the house and I can receive any of the men who care to
call; but _every_ afternoon, Polly, she goes to Mrs. Chenoweth’s and
plays whist, and I either have to shut myself up like a nun or walk
in the wood alone. Of course I could defy the dear old soul, but that
would be the end of an ideal domestic harmony, and as for Bertie he
would be furious. Mr. Rogers is the only person privileged to walk
alone with me, and I do not know whether he is flattered or not. I
had heard a good deal about the liberty of American girls, but Mrs.
Chenoweth assures me that that is all a mistake as far as the upper
classes are concerned. Still, I have had a good many conversations
with Mr. Nugent, and some day perhaps I’ll relate them to you. He
calls in the evening and we wander off the veranda to the edge of the
lake and stand there for an hour or so admiring the sunset, and once
or twice we have met quite accidentally in the forest. After all, I
do not own the trail down the mountain even if it is my favourite
one. He certainly is interesting, Polly, although in so different a
way from all the men I have ever known or read about that I really do
not know whether I like him or not. He fascinates me, but that is his
magnetism, the concentration of his preternaturally clever mind upon
myself, the brilliant and unexpected things he says, and the truly
delightful little attentions he pays me, when I know that he is full
of restlessness and hardness, and ambition and nervous contempt of the
details of life. But the moment he comes near me I feel protected and
surrounded; I am possessed immediately to drop my shawl or handkerchief
or worry about the punkies--dreadful little beasts that he keeps off
very effectively with a fan or his hat. Once I made him go down on
his knees and tie my shoe, merely because I wanted him to see that my
foot was as small as any of his countrywomen’s, in spite of my five
ft. seven, and much better shod. On another day I had a headache, and
instead of remaining in bed I had Henriette arrange me luxuriously on
a divan in the living-room, and received him when he called. I had
an uncontrollable desire to see how he would act when I was ill. He
was charming, in an abrupt, sincere, and wholly tactless way. I think
if I had known others like him or had known him about five years I
should almost fall in love with him; but how we cling to our ideals!
Independence of thought! We are all creatures of traditions.
I may just as well tell you first as last, Polly, that I am sure
both Mr. Rogers and Mr. Nugent have made up their minds to marry me.
Agatha is blind and Bertie amused, for he cannot imagine me falling
in love with anything un-English and new. You see, I _look_ so--well,
traditional, few know or suspect that I am impetuous and full of
curiosity and love of novelty _inside_. Of course, as I said, I am in a
way as traditional as I look, but in another I’m not. I don’t know if I
have expressed myself clearly.
I am sure that Mr. Rogers and all of them think that he has the better
chance, because he is so cold and calm and correct. He really is
charming in his way and I think I might have had rather a jolly little
flirtation with him if Mr. Nugent had not happened to be a guest of
the Club. But _he_ talks to me about things that interest me so much
more, and he has made me talk to him about myself as I never talked
before--even to you. If I could remember all of the nonsense we have
talked I’d write it to you, but you know I never did have any memory.
The other day a year-old doe mysteriously appeared in our ice-house
with my name printed on a card lying on its chest. I _know_ that either
Mr. R. or Mr. N. shot it for me, but I do not dare thank one or the
other or even hint the subject: the game laws are so severe that it
would be like a breach of confidence. But it has made all other meat
insipid and we enjoyed it quite enough to compensate the offender for
the risk he ran. It was one evening when both were calling that I
regretted being obliged to wait till September for the game I like best.
Mr. N’s first name is Luke.