DEAR BETTY: I’m inclosing that cold-cream recipe you asked for. It’s
warranted to give you a perfect complexion, keep your hair in curls,
your hat on straight and your temper amiable. I’m glad to hear that
you and Maurice have had an understanding, and that everything is all
serene. If you have to be in love with somebody, I honestly think it’s
much better to be in love with your husband. De Mille, of course, was
out of the question, but fortunately I’ve never felt the necessity
of being in love with anyone, and, now that I’ve reached the age of
twenty-four, it’s not probable that I ever will. Confidentially, Betty,
I never could see what you saw in Maitland. His eyes are good, I grant
you, but he’s so terribly sentimental. I’ve flirted with him, so I know
him. Next to living with a man, there’s nothing like a good flirtation
to put you on to all his good and bad qualities. Your husband is worth
a hundred of him. I _know_.
My dear, I’m earning my own living, and, according to the Willoughbys,
it’s the most extravagant thing I’ve done in the whole course of my
extravagant career. You see, every time I remember I’m a working woman,
I feel independent, and order a lot of new things, and the bills have
been rather stiff, I’ll admit. But you know how miserly the Willoughbys
are! Aunt Susan suggested that I figure up how much I’m going to get
and try to live on it, but I declined most emphatically. I never was
good at doing sums, and I don’t propose to begin to subtract and add
at this late day. Besides, I haven’t the remotest idea how much I’m
going to receive, for I refuse to let Mr. Ormsby mention the matter.
Money matters are _so tiresome_. But I’m forgetting that you know
nothing about my _job_. I’m a model--a literary man’s model. You’re
in with that literary set, so I suppose you’ve read his books. I
read one--Billie Scott raved so about it that I simply had to--but
there wasn’t a woman in it, just a lot of horrid men, that smoked and
swore when they weren’t fighting, and that fought when they weren’t
swearing and smoking. It seems that Mr. Ormsby’s publishers have
insisted upon his turning over a new leaf and writing something about
women, and, knowing nothing about our sex, Betty, he conceived the
strictly original idea of employing a model. I came down to Rosemount
in Billie’s motor car, and picked him--Mr. Ormsby--up and took him
along with me. We had quite a romantic meeting. I found him eating his
luncheon by the roadside, and insisted on his sharing it with me. I
give him “sittings” every afternoon in an adorable bungalow that he’s
fitted up as a workshop. He explained to me, in the beginning, that he
might have picked out some woman of his acquaintance and studied her,
but that he considered it wouldn’t be honorable--that with a hired
model he felt absolutely independent. I really can’t endure him, but
I’ve resolved to stick this out to the bitter end. I feel like a little
wiggly bug pinned to a piece of cardboard, with a pair of sharp, cold,
gray eyes analyzing every wiggle. This Ormsby is shockingly lacking in
_savoir faire_, and so far as flirting is concerned, he doesn’t know
the a, b, c’s of the game.
I began this letter yesterday afternoon, before dinner, with the hope
of getting it out in the evening mail, but Billie and Ernie Francis
came down from town and stopped to dinner. I’m sure the Willoughbys
have never been so gay in their lives--we’ve had company every day
since I’ve been down here--but I can’t see that it has improved Aunt
Susan’s disposition much. Something occurred last night that I suppose
has shoved me a peg further down in Mr. Ormsby’s estimation. Not that
I care! After dinner, Billie and Ernie and I went for a walk down to
the village. It was very dark coming back, and, walking between them,
naturally I didn’t resent it when each took one of my hands. There’s
something so _comforting_ about the grasp of a strong man’s hand.
Haven’t you often thought so, Betty? If I ever marry again, I intend to
pick out a man who will be able to hold my hand in a nice way when I’m
dying.
Unfortunately, as we came around a bend in the road, a lantern was
flashed at us. It was Ormsby, and you can’t imagine the look of disgust
on his face when he took in the situation. As though it were any
business of his! I had a wretched evening, for Billie and Ernie were
furious because I permitted each to hold my hand. They have _such queer
ideas_ of propriety! How little real pleasure one gets out of life,
Betty! Louise has sent me down one of those _bébé_ hats--a perfect
dream. I intend to wear it to church to-morrow morning and give the
villagers a treat.
By the way, dear, if you’ve any old clothes to dispose of, send them
down here. I’ve discovered a poor family--father out of work, mother
sick, baby three days old. They are absolutely destitute. I’ve ordered
a beautiful christening robe for the baby, and have had the bill sent
to Uncle Jacob. I intend to be its godmother. But why will those people
insist on having so many children, Betty? Six in this family! _Fancy!_
I’ve a good mind to write to the President, and insist on his providing
for them. This man, even when he works, doesn’t make enough to support
two--to say nothing of six. The baby is quite pretty, except that
its nose is inclined to spread. I’ve explained to the mother how, by
pinching it every day, she can get it into quite a respectable shape.
You see, the baby’s a girl, and much will depend upon its nose. If
mine were Roman instead of _retroussé_, I would probably have been a
bluestocking and respected by Mr. Ormsby. Not that I care, though!
Lovingly,
JANE.
P. S.--I wish you’d leave an order at a bookstand to have all his books
sent down. Have them sent c. o. d. to Uncle Jacob.