January 27.
Dear Dr. MacRae:
I wonder if this note will be so fortunate as to find you awake? Perhaps
you are not aware that I have called four times to offer thanks and
consolation in my best bed-side manner? I am touched by the news that
Mrs. McGurk's time is entirely occupied in taking in flowers and jelly
and chicken broth, donated by the adoring ladies of the parish to
the ungracious hero in a plaster cast. I know that you find a cap of
homespun more comfortable than a halo, but I really do think that you
might have regarded me in a different light from the hysterical ladies
in question. You and I used to be friends (intermittently), and though
there are one or two details in our past intercourse that might better
be expunged, still I don't see why we should let them upset our entire
relationship. Can't we be sensible and expunge them?
The fire has brought out such a lot of unexpected kindliness and
charity, I wish it might bring out a little from you. You see, Sandy,
I know you well. You may pose to the world as being gruff and curt and
ungracious and scientific and inhuman and S C O T C H, but you can't
fool me. My newly trained psychological eye has been upon you for ten
months, and I have applied the Binet test. You are really kind and
sympathetic and wise and forgiving and big, so please be at home the
next time I come to see you, and we will perform a surgical operation
upon Time and amputate five months.
Do you remember the Sunday afternoon we ran away, and what a nice time
we had? It is now the day after that.
SALLIE McBRIDE.
P.S. If I condescend to call upon you again, please condescend to see
me, for I assure you I won't try more than once! Also, I assure you that
I won't drip tears on your counterpane or try to kiss your hand, as I
hear one admiring lady did.