DEAREST DAPHNE,--The scarcity of paper isn't altogether an unmixed
misfortune, as far as one's correspondence is concerned. Letters that don't
matter, letters from the insignificant and the boresome, simply aren't
answered. For small spur-of-the-moment notes to one's _intimes_ who're not
too far off, there's quite a little feeling for using _slates_. One writes
what one's to say on one's slate (which may be just as dilly a little
affair as you please, with plain or chased silver frame, enamelled monogram
or coronet, and pencil hanging by a little silver chain), and sends it by a
servant. When the note's been read, it's wiped off, the answer written, and
the slate brought back. _Isn't_ that fragrant? I may claim to have set this
fashion. Of course a very _voyant_ slate is not just-so. The
Bullyon-Boundermere woman set up one with a deep, heavily-chased gold
frame, and "B.-B." at the top set with big diamonds. _C'est bien elle!_
She'd used it only half-a-dozen times when it was snatched from her
footwoman, who was taking it to somebody's house, and hasn't been heard of
since!
_People Who Matter_ gave a double-page to illustrating "War-Time
Correspondence Slates of Social Leaders." _My_ slate's there, and Stella
Clackmannan's, and Beryl's and several more. À propos, have you seen the
series of "Well-known War-Workers" they've been having lately in _People
Who Matter_? They're really quite worth while. There's dear Lala
Middleshire in one of those charming "Olga" trench coats (khaki face-cloth
lined self-coloured satin and with big, lovely, gilt-and-enamelled
buttons), high brown boots, and one of those saucy little Belgian caps with
a distracting little tassel wagging in front. The pickie is called "The
Duchess of Middleshire Takes a War-Worker's Lunch," and dear Lala is shown
standing by a table, looking so _bravely_ at two cutlets, a potato, a piece
of war bread, a piece of war cheese and a small pudding.
Then there's Hermione Shropshire, in a perfectly _haunting_ lace and
taffetas morning robe, with a clock near her (marked with a cross) pointing
to eight o'clock! (She lets her maid dress her at that hour now, so that
the girl may go and make munitions.) And Edelfleda Saxonbury is shown in an
evening gown, wearing her famous pearls. She's leaning her chin on her hand
and gazing with a sweet wistful look at an inset view of the hostel where
she's washed plates and cups quite several times.
And last but not least there's a pickie that the journalist people have
dubbed, "Distinguished Society Women distinguish themselves as Carpenters,"
_et voilà_ Beryl, Babs and your Blanche, in delicious cream serge overall
things, with hammers, planes, and saws embroidered in crewels on the big
square collars and turn-up cuffs, and enormously becoming carpenter's caps,
looking at a rest-hut we've just finished. Oh, my dearest and best, you
don't know what it is to _live_ till you've learned to _carpent_! It's
positively _enthralling_! When we're skilful enough we're to go abroad--
_mais il faut se taire_! _I_ don't see why we shouldn't go _now_. We're as
skilful as we shall ever be. And even if one or two of our huts _had_ no
doors what's that matter? Besides, a hut with no door has a tremendous
pull--there wouldn't be any draughts!
Everyone's _furious_ at the way the powers that be have treated Sybil
Easthampton. You know what a wonderful thing her Ollyoola Love Dance is. Of
course she's lived among the Ollyoolas and knows them in all their moods.
(They're natives somewhere ever and ever so far off, where there are palms
and coral reefs, and the people don't believe in wrapping themselves up
much.) And so she's given the dance at a great many War Fund matinees. That
little Mrs. Jimmy Sharpe, daring to criticise it, said there was too much
Ollyoola and not enough dance; but everybody who _counts_ simply raves
about it. And then, when some manager person offered Sybil big terms to do
it at the "Incandescent," he was "officially informed" that, if the
Ollyoola Love Dance went into the bill the "Incandescent" would be "placed
out of bounds"! What do you, _do_ you think of that, _m'amie_? A piece of
sheer _artistry_ like the Ollyoola Love Dance to be treated so! And it's
wonderful not only artistically but scientifically. Each of dear Sybil's
amazing wriggles and squirms and crouches and springs is _absolutely_
true--_exactly_ what an Ollyoola _does_ when it's in love.
We're all glad to think we can _still_ see the Ollyoola Love Dance at War
Fund matinées.
Ever thine,
BLANCHE.
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