(_Miss Armstrong protests and invites_.)
It is real, real, _real_. If I can say so, after going on all these
years with but one idea (according to my good friends) of settling
myself comfortably in some large home, shouldn't you believe it? You
have lived more interestingly than I, and you are not dependent, as
most of us are. You really mock me through it all. You think I am
worthy of only a kind of candy that you carry about for agreeable
children, which you call love. To me, sir, it reads like an
insult--your message of love tucked in concisely at the close.
No, keep to facts, for they are your _metier_. You make them
interesting. Tell me more about your idle, contemplative self. And let
me see you to-morrow at the Thorntons'. Leave your sombre eyes at home,
and don't expect infinities in tea-gabble. I saw you at the opera last
night. For some moments, while Melba was singing, I wanted you and your
confectioner's love. That Melba might always sing, and the tide always
flood the marshes! On the whole, I like candy. Send me a page of it.