_New York,
December 31._
It is seven o’clock here and I somehow feel that you are thinking of
me--in Rome it must be midnight, the beginning of the New Year. If we
could only hold hands for just one little minute, it would make me so
happy. An hour ago I sent you a cable, so you’ll get my message with
your breakfast.
There’s just a moment left in which to write a line before dressing
for dinner. Then comes a ball to which I shall wear a frock all little
fluttering iridescent draperies, suggesting an airy hummingbird. Sybil
is spending the night here--it is months since I last saw her in Rome.
She is just as pretty and lively as ever, smoking cigarettes all the
time and using the same exaggerated language,--that you’re the
handsomest man that ever existed, that I’m “the luckiest girl in
Heaven or Hell.” She’s much excited over our betrothal and hopes we
may live a million years and have a thousand children!
Sybil went with me to ask Aunt to put an announcement in the papers,
to which my autocratic relative replied that she would see. Do you
suppose your Polly will have any partners now that she is engaged? For
rumors are leaking out, of course. Partners or no partners, if Aunt
doesn’t, I’ll put it in the papers myself, I will!
You wouldn’t believe it of me, would you, but I’m growing positively
sentimental. Half the time I live in a dream with you, dear, thinking
of you, wanting so much to please you, wondering what you would like
me to do. The little forget-me-not enclosed, carries a kiss.
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