A quaint thing has happened to me! Came down here to take over the
place, and to say decidedly I would not marry Miss Travers, and I
find her with red hair and a skin like milk, and a pair of green
eyes that look at you from a forest of black eyelashes with a
thousand unsaid challenges. I should not wonder if I commit some
folly. One has read of women like this in the _cinque-cento_ time in
Italy, but up to now I had never met one. She is not in the room ten
minutes before one feels a sense of unrest, and desire for one
hardly knows what--principally to touch her, I fancy. Good Lord!
what a skin! pure milk and rare roses--and the reddest Cupid's bow
of a mouth! You had better come down at once (these things are
probably in your line) to save me from some sheer idiocy. The
situation is exceptional--she and I practically alone in the house,
for old Barton does not count. She had nowhere to go, and as far as
I can make out has not a friend in the world. I suppose I ought to
leave. I will try to on Monday; but come down to-morrow by the 4.00
train.
Yours,