Sunday. I leave it in your hands, dear. Do try to work it.


St. Albans, June 4th.

My Dearest Frank,--We nearly called in the doctor after your dear old
preposterous letter. My mother gasped upon the sofa while I read her
some extracts. That I, the daughter of the house, should be married
in my old black and white tennis-dress, which I wore at the
Arlingtons' to save my nice one! Oh, you are simply splendid
sometimes! And the learned way in which you alluded to my alpaca.
As a matter of fact, it's a merino, but that doesn't matter. Fancy
your remembering my wardrobe like that! And wanting me to wear them
all for years! So I shall, dear, secretly, when we are quite quite
alone. But they are all out of date already, and if in a year or so
you saw your poor dowdy wife with tight sleeves among a roomful of
puff-shouldered young ladies, you would not be consoled even by the
memory that it was in that dress that you first . . . you know!

As a matter of fact, I MUST have my dress to be married in. I don't
think mother would regard it as a legal marriage if I hadn't, and if
you knew how nice it will be, you would not have the heart to
interfere with it. Try to picture it, silver-grey--I know how fond
you are of greys--a little white chiffon at neck and wrists, and the
prettiest pearl trimming. Then the hat en suite, pale-grey lisse,
white feather and brilliant buckle. All these details are wasted
upon you, sir, but you will like it when you see it. It fulfils your
ideal of tasteful simplicity, which men always imagine to be an
economical method of dressing, until they have wives and milliners'
bills of their own.