_Thursday night, Nov. 3rd, 1904_.
DEAR BOB,--A quaint thing has happened to me! Came down here to take
over the place, and to say decidedly I would not marry Miss Travers,
and I find her with red hair and a skin like milk, and a pair of green
eyes that look at you from a forest of black eyelashes with a thousand
unsaid challenges. I should not wonder if I commit some folly. One
has read of women like this in the _cinque-cento_ time in Italy, but
up to now I had never met one. She is not in the room ten minutes
before one feels a sense of unrest, and desire for one hardly knows
what--principally to touch her, I fancy. Good Lord! what a skin! pure
milk and rare roses--and the reddest Cupid’s bow of a mouth! You had
better come down at once, (these things are probably in your line) to
save me from some sheer idiocy. The situation is exceptional; she and
I practically alone in the house, for old Barton does not count. She
has nowhere to go, and as far as I can make out has not a friend in
the world. I suppose I ought to leave--I will try to on Monday, but
come down to-morrow by the 4 train.
Yours,