window.

Mother, I want you to do something for me. You know who is down
there, and--this is awfully delicate, Mumsy--but he's a nice boy,
and I thought I liked him. I guess you know he has been rather
attentive. Now, I DO like him, Mumsy, but not the way I thought I
did, and I want you to--very gently, of course--to discourage him
a little. You know how I mean. He's a dear boy, but I am so tired
of people who don't know anything but horses and motors.

And, oh, yes,--do you remember a girl named Lucille Mellon who
was at school with you in Rome? And that she married a man named
Harbison? Well, her son is here! He builds railroads and bridges
and things, and he even built himself an automobile down in South
America, because he couldn't afford to buy one, and burned wood
in it! Wood! Think of it!

I wired father in Chicago for fear he would come rushing home.
The picture in the paper of the face at the basement window is
supposed to be Mr. Harbison, but of course it isn't any more like
him than mine is like me.

Anne Brown mislaid her pearl collar when she took it off last
night, and has fussed herself into a sick headache. She declares
it was stolen! Some of the people are playing bridge, Betty
Mercer is doing a cake walk to the RHAPSODIE HONGROISE--Jim has
no every-day music--and the telephone is ringing. We have
received enough flowers for a funeral--somebody sent Lollie a
Gates Ajar, only with the gates shut.