P.S. These November nights are pretty cold, and we are getting ready to
move the camps indoors. Our Indians are very pampered young savages at
present, with a double supply of blankets and hot-water bottles. I shall
hate to see the camps go; they have done a lot for us. Our lads will be
as tough as Canadian trappers when they come in.
November 20.
Dear Judy:
Your motherly solicitude is sweet, but I didn't mean what I said.
Of course it's perfectly safe to convey Judy, junior, to the temperately
tropical lands that are washed by the Caribbean. She'll thrive as
long as you don't set her absolutely on top of the equator. And your
bungalow, shaded by palms and fanned by sea breezes, with an ice machine
in the back yard and an English doctor across the bay, sounds made for
the rearing of babies.
My objections were all due to the selfish fact that I and the John Grier
are going to be lonely without you this winter. I really think it's
entrancing to have a husband who engages in such picturesque pursuits
as financing tropical railroads and developing asphalt lakes and rubber
groves and mahogany forests. I wish that Gordon would take to life
in those picturesque countries; I'd be more thrilled by the romantic
possibilities of the future. Washington seems awfully commonplace
compared with Honduras and Nicaragua and the islands of the Caribbean.
I'll be down to wave good-by.