_Leicestershire,
October._
Now for a confession! There are two young men here at the house party.
One is big and homely and loose-jointed but a good sort, while the
other is dark and very handsome and goes to Oxford. He gave me his
picture and asked if he couldn’t have mine for his watch. I told him I
was surprised that he didn’t have a girl’s photograph for his already.
Before I knew it, he had opened my watch and seen you. I didn’t know
exactly what to do, so I said you were my older brother. He swallowed
it all down seriously, and in fact remarked that he thought I looked
very much like you. I feel immensely flattered and only wish it were
true.
But I am not going to write you any more sweet letters. It isn’t
because I have changed one bit in my feelings toward you, but because
variety is the spice of life, and if you have too many nice things
written to you, you won’t appreciate them, and I have been good for a
long time now. Besides, you say you are not coming to Paris and I am
very cross.
Aunt sends her best wishes and says, “Men are April when they woo, and
December when they wed.” I’m afraid that is true to life--don’t you
think so?
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