I have just been giving a dinner for Gordon, with Betsy and Mrs.
Livermore and Mr. Witherspoon as guests. I graciously included the
doctor, but he curtly declined on the ground that he wasn't in a social
mood. Our Sandy does not let politeness interfere with truth!
There is no doubt about it, Gordon is the most presentable man that ever
breathed. He is so good looking and easy and gracious and witty, and his
manners are so impeccable--Oh, he would make a wonderfully decorative
husband! But after all, I suppose you do live with a husband. You don't
just show him off at dinners and teas.
He was exceptionally nice tonight. Betsy and Mrs. Livermore both fell in
love with him--and I just a trifle. He entertained us with a speech in
his best public manner, apropos of Java's welfare. We have been having
a dreadful time finding a sleeping place for that monkey, and Gordon
proved with incontestable logic that, since he was presented to us by
Jimmie, and Jimmie is Percy's friend, he should sleep with Percy. Gordon
is a natural talker, and an audience affects him like champagne. He can
argue with as much emotional earnestness on the subject of a monkey as
on the greatest hero that ever bled for his country.
I felt tears coming to my eyes when he described Java's loneliness as he
watched out the night in our furnace cellar, and pictured his brothers
at play in the far-off tropical jungle.
A man who can talk like that has a future before him. I haven't a doubt
but that I shall be voting for him for President in another twenty
years.
We all had a beautiful time, and entirely forgot--for a space of three
hours--that 107 orphans slumbered about us. Much as I love the little
dears, it is pleasant to get away from them once in a while.
My guests left at ten, and it must be midnight by now. (This is the
eighth day, and my clock has stopped again; Jane forgets to wind it as
regularly as Friday comes around.) However, I know it's late; and as a
woman, it's my duty to try for beauty sleep, especially with an eligible
young suitor at hand.
I'll finish tomorrow. Good night.
Saturday.
Gordon spent this morning playing with my asylum and planning some
intelligent presents to be sent later. He thinks that three neatly
painted totem poles would add to the attractiveness of our Indian camps.
He is also going to make us a present of three dozen pink rompers for
the babies. Pink is a color that is very popular with the superintendent
of this asylum, who is deadly tired of blue! Our generous friend is
likewise amusing himself with the idea of a couple of donkeys and
saddles and a little red cart. Isn't it nice that Gordon's father
provided for him so amply, and that he is such a charitably inclined
young man? He is at present lunching with Percy at the hotel, and, I
trust, imbibing fresh ideas in the field of philanthropy.
Perhaps you think I haven't enjoyed this interruption to the monotony
of institution life! You can say all you please, my dear Mrs. Pendleton,
about how well I am managing your asylum, but, just the same, it isn't
natural for me to be so stationary. I very frequently need a change.
That is why Gordon, with his bubbling optimism and boyish spirits, is so
exhilarating especially as a contrast to too much doctor.
Sunday morning.
I must tell you the end of Gordon's visit. His intention had been to
leave at four, but in an evil moment I begged him to stay over till
9:30, and yesterday afternoon he and Singapore and I took a long
'cross-country walk, far out of sight of the towers of this asylum,
and stopped at a pretty little roadside inn, where we had a satisfying
supper of ham and eggs and cabbage. Sing stuffed so disgracefully that
he has been languid ever since.
The walk and all was fun, and a very grateful change from this
monotonous life I lead. It would have kept me pleasant and contented
for weeks if something most unpleasant hadn't happened later. We had
a beautiful, sunny, carefree afternoon, and I'm sorry to have had
it spoiled. We came back very unromantically in the trolley car, and
reached the J. G. H. before nine, just in good time for him to run on
to the station and catch his train. So I didn't ask him to come in, but
politely wished him a pleasant journey at the porte-cochere.
A car was standing at the side of the drive, in the shadow of the house.
I recognized it, and thought the doctor was inside with Mr. Witherspoon.
(They frequently spend their evenings together in the laboratory.) Well,
Gordon, at the moment of parting, was seized with an unfortunate impulse
to ask me to abandon the management of this asylum, and take over the
management of a private house instead.
Did you ever know anything like the man? He had the whole afternoon and
miles of empty meadow in which to discuss the question, but instead he
must choose our door mat!
I don't know just what I did say. I tried to turn it off lightly and
hurry him to his train. But he refused to be turned off lightly. He
braced himself against a post and insisted upon arguing it out. I knew
that he was missing his train, and that every window in this institution
was open. A man never has the slightest thought of possible overhearers.
It is always the woman who thinks of convention.
Being in a nervous twitter to get rid of him, I suppose I was pretty
abrupt and tactless. He began to get angry, and then by some unlucky
chance his eye fell on that car. He recognized it, too, and, being in
a savage mood, he began making fun of the doctor. "Old Goggle-eyes"
he called him, and "Scatchy," and oh, the awfullest lot of unmannerly,
silly things!
I was assuring him with convincing earnestness that I didn't care a rap
about the doctor, that I thought he was just as funny and impossible as
he could be, when suddenly the doctor rose out of his car and walked up
to us.