_Black Horse Farm on the Hudson,
December._
Here we are at the Farm, Aunt, Checkers, and I. Although our
engagement may be announced in Rome, my stern relative says we must
wait until we’re settled a bit before announcing it in New York. I was
going to give a luncheon and tell everyone, but she suddenly dashed
away into the country with me in her wake, flying like Alice through
the Looking Glass after the Mad Queen.
You would like this place, dear,--an old Colonial house of brick with
wings and white trimmings, surrounded by great elms overlooking the
Hudson. The furniture is Chippendale, queer ancient panoramic wall
paper makes a background for some delightful eighteenth-century
prints, and fireplaces ablaze with logs are in every room. I’ve been
secretly wondering if we couldn’t have our honeymoon here. Do you
fancy the idea, dearest?
There is still a sheet of paper left right under my nose, staring up
as much as to say, “Why don’t you use me? Why not write more to your
secretary?” Well, it will have to be in pencil, for to use ink will
mean going down stairs where there are still people dashing about;
while up in my bedroom I am quite alone except for John Sullivan, our
bull pup.
Isn’t it perfectly pathetic to be left all solitary this long cold
winter with the only boy I love so far away?
P. S. Is Charlton really so ill that you do not like to leave him? No
other reason? You wrote that Mona Lisa had disappeared from your life.
Are you sure she has no successor?
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