My Garret, Montparnasse,
April.

Hurrah! As I opened my eyes this morning to a hard, unfeeling world,
little did I think what a surprise awaited me. A big blue envelope
had been pushed under my door. Another rejection, I thought,
and I took it up distastefully. The next moment I was staring
at my first cheque.

It was an express order for two hundred francs, in payment of a bit of verse.
. . . So to-day I will celebrate. I will lunch at the D'Harcourt,
I will dine on the Grand Boulevard, I will go to the theater.

Well, here's the thing that has turned the tide for me.
It is somewhat in the vein of "Sourdough" Service, the Yukon bard.
I don't think much of his stuff, but they say he makes heaps of money.
I can well believe it, for he drives a Hispano-Suiza in the Bois
every afternoon. The other night he was with a crowd at the Dome Cafe,
a chubby chap who sits in a corner and seldom speaks. I was disappointed.
I thought he was a big, hairy man who swore like a trooper and mixed brandy
with his beer. He only drank Vichy, poor fellow!




Lucille