at here my mother lost her temper, and
there was no end of a fuss. It ended by mother offering me a string of
seed pearls for Christmas, and my party dresses cut V front and back, if
I would, as she phrazed it, "put him out of my silly head."

"I shall have to write one letter, mother," I said, "to--to break things
off. I cannot tear myself out of another's Life without a word."

She sniffed.

"Very well," she said. "One letter. I trust you to make it only one."

I come now to the next day. How true it is, that "Man's life is but a
jest, a dream, a shadow, bubble, air, a vapour at the best!"

I spent the morning with mother at the dressmakers and she chose two
perfectly spiffing things, one of white chiffon over silk, made modafied
Empire, with little bunches of roses here and there on it, and when she
and the dressmaker were hagling over the roses, I took the scizzors and
cut the neck of the lining two inches lower in front. The effect was
posatively impressive. The other was blue over orkid, a perfectly
passionate combination.

When we got home some of the girls had dropped in, and Carter Brooks
and Sis were having tea in the den. I am perfectly sure that Sis threw
a cigarette in the fire when I went in. When I think of my sitting here
alone, when I have done NOTHING, and Sis playing around and smoking
cigarettes, and nothing said, all for a difference of 20 months, it
makes me furious.

"Let's go in and play with the children, Leila," he said. "I'm feeling
young today."

Which was perfectly silly. He is not Methuzala. Although thinking
himself so, or almost.

Well, they went into the drawing room. Elaine Adams was there waiting
for me, and Betty Anderson and Jane Raleigh. And I hadn't been in the
room five minutes before I knew that they all knew. It turned out later
that Hannah was engaged to the Adams's butler, and she had told him,
and he had told Elaine's governess, who is still there and does the
ordering, and Elaine sends her stockings home for her to darn.

Sis had told Carter, too, I saw that, and among them they had rather
a good time. Carter sat down at the piano and struck a few chords,
chanting "My Love is like a white, white rose."

"Only you know" he said, turning to me, "that's wrong. It ought to be a
`red, red rose.'"

"Certainly not. The word is `white.'"

"Oh, is it?" he said, with his head on one side. "Strange that both you
and Harold should have got it wrong."

I confess to a fe