So I suppose it will be the
same on future trips, and if Mrs. Shuster doesn't "kick," her secretary
will continue to fill the bill as chauffeur till a professional one is
engaged--a _Neutral_ one, who neither yearns for the blood of Britishers
nor the eyes of Austrians. Strange that Mrs. Shuster didn't want to come
with us! The back of the Grayles-Grice is fairly full of Goodriches, but
there's generous capacity for two more fattish passengers.

Mrs. S. said she would stop at home and help Mr. Moore receive guests,
in case others came in his daughter's absence. But there's nothing in
_that_ excuse, really. Even Larry could have come away if he liked.
Marcel Moncourt is equal to every emergency.

In our car we have offered to take a honeymoon couple named Morley with
whom we feel sympathetic; and Mr. Caspian, the ex-socialist, in a roomy
Wilmot, takes--_himself_.

Please look carefully at the map of Long Island which I send, and agree
with me that though graceful in shape it's a long-bodied, short-legged
island. Jack says it isn't. He says that I ought to see it's a lobster,
and that what I call its legs are its claws. We live on the southern
edge of its top, or northeast leg--or claw. If leg, it is kicking
Shelter Island, the biggest of the baby islands swimming gaily about
within reach. If claw, it is engaged with the aid of its southern mate
in trying to grab the morsel. And a dainty morsel, too!--as I have seen
for myself to-day by crossing over to the little island for the first
time. I've been so busy getting settled I couldn't do any sight-seeing
even in the neighbourhood, unless one counts running back and forth
between Awepesha and Kidd's Pines.

We started out to-day on one of those pale opal mornings for which it
seems Long Island is famous in spring and autumn. Literally, sky and
water were one vast cream-white opal, shot with pink, and that wonderful
flaming blue which rum has when it's set on fire. Our two places aren't
very far from Greenport, as I've mentioned on postcards; and it's at
Greenport that you take the nice red ferryboat across lovely, lakelike
Peconic Bay, going to Shelter Island.

Things and thoughts are on such a large scale in America, even in the
East (though the Goodriches don't see it!), that nobody seems astonished
at the bigness of the said nice red ferryboat. To my British Jack,
however, it loomed enormous for the smallness of its "job"--just running
between the mother island an