Galgenberg, Aug. 18th.
Dear Mr. Anstruther,--You must really write a book. Write a very long
one, with plenty of room for all your words. What is your bill for
postage now? Johanna, I am sure, thinks you are sending me instalments
of manuscript, and marvels at the extravagance that shuts it up in
envelopes instead of leaving its ends open and tying it up with string.
Once more I must beg you not to write about Miss Cheriton. It is useless
to remind me that I have posed as your sister, and that to your sister
you may confide anything, because I am not your sister. Sometimes I have
written of an elder-sisterly attitude toward you, but that, of course,
was only talk. I am not irascible enough for the position. I do think,
though, you ought to be surrounded by women who are cross. Six cross and
determined elder sisters would do wonders for you. And so would a mother
with an iron will. And perhaps an aunt living in the house might be a
good thing; one of those aunts--I believe sufficiently abundant--who
pierce your soul with their eyes and then describe it minutely at
meal-times in the presence of the family, expatiating particularly on
what those corners of it look like, those corners you thought so secret,
in which are huddled your dearest faults.
Yours sincerely,