DEAREST GLADYS,--You have made immense progress since you first came
out. Still, you will be all the better for an occasional hint from your
more sophisticated friend. Your brief engagement to the serious young
stamp-collector was--whatever may be said against it--at least, an
experience, and I don't at all disapprove of CISSY, and BABY BEAUMONT,
and the other clever boys, but--why call Captain MASHINGTON "JACK"?
That wonderful tennis-player, Mrs. LORNE HOPPER has merely, tacitly,
_lent_ him to you, she will soon be in London again, and then, shooting
and theatricals over, "JACK" will also go back to the city of mist and
fog. You will be obliged to return him, whether "with thanks" or not.
He is definitely charming, but charmingly indefinite, and, in fact, he
is playing with you as you and ORIEL played with each other, as Miss
TOOGOOD is now playing with ORIEL, and as someone (let us hope) will,
some day, play with Miss TOOGOOD. Of course, as long as you both know
it's a game and "play the rules" it's all right.
[Illustration]
I enjoyed your letter telling me how "splendidly" the theatricals
went off, and that "everyone said it was a great success." My dear
child, you are delightful--quite refreshing; and have kept, in all
its early bloom, your astonishing talent for believing that people
mean, literally, what they say. How on earth can you, or any of the
other performers, know whether it was a success or not? Of course
everyone _said_ it was. Quite so; who would be rude enough to say it
was a failure? The more atrocious the performance, the more praise
it would get. Guests _invariably_ flatter amateurs to their faces;
and, on the other hand, however admirable it may have been, they
_never_ fail to abuse it to everyone else. I don't know whether it's
jealousy, or simply irritation at being obliged to sit still (generally
in the dark), and look on while others are showing off and enjoying
themselves; but I _do_ know that they criticise severely, without
exception, all amateur entertainments. As I am your most intimate
friend, of course people think it safe to disparage you to me, and I
have had various accounts. All the men agreed that it was "awful rot,"
and the women that it was quite absurd, very dull, and as long as the
Cromwell Road; that our dear CISSY was quite too ridiculously conceited
as a manager, attempting effects, suitable only for Drury Lane, on a
tiny drawing-room stage; for instance, those dreadful stone steps, on
which you were to "trip down," and over which you tripped up. You see,
my informant caught you tripping!
CISSY, poor incompetent darling, made, it seems, touching attempts to
be "topical," and "up to date," by allusions of the tritest and lamest
description to the Empire, the CZAR, and dynamite, and by wearing a
huge green carnation. The whole thing completely missed fire, I am
told; and was the usual tedious exhibition of complacent young vanity.
You're too sensible to be offended, dear, especially as I can no more
form a judgment from _their_ description than from yours--knowing you
all to be prejudiced. However, I quite believe you looked sweet in your
pretty costume, and I wish I had been there to see the fun.
Last night, at dinner, I met your old admirer, Mr. GOLDBEITER. He
told me he wanted to be married, and asked me "to look out for a nice
wife for him." I am afraid the sort of man who says that lives to be
an old bachelor. I could have looked after him better, but that on my
other side was a person in whom I take great interest; that is to say,
someone I have only just met. The LYON TAYMERS would like him. He is
a writer, perfectly "new"; and at present the cause of great disputes
as to who discovered him. He is beautiful, of course young, and will
be very agreeable when he has settled on his pose; at present, he's a
little undecided about it.
Not having read a line of his, or even knowing he was an author, I
began with my usual formula, "I am _so_ interested in your work, Mr. DE
TROUVAILLE" (he's French by descent). He was a little doubtful of me
at first, but I think we shall become friends. He said nothing about
having met me in a previous existence, did not ask if I believed in
instantaneous sympathy, and omitted to inquire which was _not_ my day
at home. So, you see, he is not quite like everyone else. Before the
end of dinner, he had spoken, very respectfully, but not unfavourably,
of my eyes, and he is going to send me his book, _Enchantment_. He
belongs to the new literary school they call "Sensitivists." I wonder
what it means! Good-bye, dear.
Ever your loving MARJORIE.
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"NULLIS MEDICABILIS HERBIS," &c.--A youthful author suffering from a
violent attack of the critics.
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