_New York,_
_March._
I’m getting desperate. It is impossible to write you how I feel or
why, but I’m so alone except for Checkers. He said today, “Why young
’un, you’re getting restless,” and so I am. The Prince arrives
tomorrow--Aunt still continues to be queer about our engagement. So
you think I really gave the lion to the Prince? And you are flirting
with the dangerous Mona Lisa. Oh, everything seems topsy turvey!
* * * * *