more intimately concerning the color of my spirit. And as to
my Face--_am I really obliged to have a face_? Oh, no--o!
'Songs without words' are surely the only songs in the world
that are packed to the last lilting note with utterly
limitless meanings. So in these 'letters without faces' I
cast myself quite serenely upon the mercy of your
imagination.

"What's that you say? That I've simply _got_ to have a face?
Oh, darn!--well, do your worst. Conjure up for me then, here
and now, any sort of features whatsoever that please your
fancy. Only, Man of Mine, just remember this in your
imaginings: Gift me with Beauty if you like, or gift me with
Brains, but do not make the crude masculine mistake of
gifting me with both. Thought furrows faces you know, and
after Adolescence only Inanity retains its heavenly
smoothness. Beauty even at its worst is a gorgeously
perfect, flower-sprinkled lawn over which the most ordinary,
every-day errands of life cannot cross without scarring. And
brains at their best are only a ploughed field teeming
always and forever with the worries of incalculable
harvests. Make me a little pretty, if you like, and a little
wise, but not too much of either, if you value the verities
of your Vision. There! I say: do your worst! Make me that
face, and that face only, that you _need the most_ in all
this big, lonesome world: food for your heart, or fragrance
for your nostrils. Only, one face or another--I insist upon
having _red hair_!

"MOLLY."