well written out. "Valentine," also, is a word that naturaly
connects itself with AFFAIRS DE COUR. And I felt that I was safe, for as
there was no Harold Valentine, he could not call for the letter at the
post office, and would therefore not be able to cause me any trouble,
under any circumstances. And, furthermore. I knew that Hannah would not
mail the letter anyhow, but would give it to mother. So, even if there
was a Harold Valentine, he would never get it.

Comforted by these reflections, I drank my malted milk, ignorant of
the fact that Destiny, "which never swerves, nor yields to men the
helm"--Emerson, was stocking at my heels.

Between sips, as the expression goes, I addressed the envelope to Harold
Valentine, and gave it to Hannah. She went out the front door with it,
as I had expected, but I watched from a window, and she turned right
around and went in the area way. So THAT was all right.

It had worked like a Charm. I could tear my hair now when I think how
well it worked. I ought to have been suspicious for that very reason.
When things go very well with me at the start, it is a sure sign that
they are going to blow up eventualy.

Mother and Sis slept late the next morning, and I went out stealthily
and did some shopping. First I bought myself a bunch of violets, with a
white rose in the center, and I printed on the card:

"My love is like a white, white rose. H." And sent it to myself.

It was deception, I acknowledge, but having put my hand to the Plow,
I did not intend to steer a crooked course. I would go straight to the
end. I am like that in everything I do. But, on delibarating things
over, I felt that Violets, alone and unsuported, were not enough. I felt
that If I had a photograph, it would make everything more real. After
all, what is a love affair without a picture of the Beloved Object?

So I bought a photograph. It was hard to find what I wanted, but I got
it at last in a stationer's shop, a young man in a checked suit with a
small mustache--the young man, of course, not the suit. Unluckaly, he
was rather blonde, and had a dimple in his chin. But he looked exactly
as though his name ought to be Harold.

I may say here that I chose "Harold," not because it is a favorite name
of mine, but because it is romantic in sound. Also because I had never
known any one named Harold and it seemed only discrete.

I took it home in my muff and put it under my pillow where Hannah would
find it and pr