Set in Silver

								

somehow--as Frenchwomen are, at their best. I often think of you as a
kind of pocket combination of Somebody's Hundred Best Books: Romance,
Practical Common Sense, Poetry, Wit, Wisdom, Fancy Cookery, etc., etc.
Who but a Frenchwoman could combine all these qualities with the latest
thing in hair-dressing and the neatest thing in stays? By the way, can
one's stays be a quality? Yes, if one's French--even half French--I
believe they can.
If I hadn't just got your letter of day before yesterday, assuring me
that you feel strong and fresh--almost as if you'd never been ill--I
shouldn't worry you for advice. Only a few weeks ago, if suddenly called
upon for it, you'd have shown signs of nervous prostration. I shall
never forget my horror when you (quite uncontrollably) threw a spoon at
Philomene who came to ask whether we would have soup à croute or
potage à la bonne femme for dinner!
Switzerland was an inspiration; mine, I flatter myself. And if, in
telling me that you're in robust health again, you're hinting at an
intention to sneak back to blazing Paris before the middle of September,
you don't know your Spartan daughter. All that's American in me rises to
shout "No!" And you needn't think that your child is bored. She may be
boiled, but never bored. Far from it, as you shall hear.
School breaks up to-morrow--breaks into little blond and brunette bits,
which will blow or drift off to their respective homes; and I should by
this time be packing to visit the Despards, where I'm supposed to teach
Mimi's young voice to soar, as compensation for holiday hospitality;
but--I'm not packing, because Ellaline Lethbridge has had an attack of
nerves.
You won't be surprised that I stopped two hours over-time to-day to hold
the hand and to stroke the hair of Ellaline. I've done that before, when
she had a pain in her finger, or a cold in her little nose, and sent you
a petit bleu to announce that I couldn't get home for dinner and our
happy hour together. No, you won't be surprised at my stopping--or that
Ellaline should have an attack of nerves. But the reason for the attack
and the cure she wants me to give her: these will surprise you.
Why, it's almost as hard to begin, after all, as if I hadn't been
working industriously up to it for three pages. But here goes!
Dearest, you've often said, and I've agreed with you (or else it was the
other way round), that nothing I could ever do for Ellaline Lethbridge
would be too much; that she couldn't ask any sacrifice of me which would
be too great. Of course, one does say these things until one is tested.
But--I wonder if there is a "but"?
Of course you believe that your one chick has a glorious voice, and that
it's a cruel shame she should be doing nothing better than teaching
other people's chicks to squall, whether their voices are worth
squalling with or not. Perhaps, though, mine mayn't be as remarkable an