or Kidd's Pines the morning after the dance at
Piping Rock, but a Mrs. Sam de Silverley (who said she knew you) was
moved by curiosity to want me introduced to her. She "pined to see the
inside of the Stanislaws house," first hinted and then pleaded to do so,
and in return invited the whole of our crowd to a garden party at her
place. Some Russian dancers were to "entertain," and the Goodriches--who
are seeing life with all their souls--yearned to go. So did our bride
and bridegroom, who want their money's worth of honeymoon; therefore it
was arranged that we stay over, and drive home in a moonlight
procession.

I am not built for bun worries, be they out of doors or in, and declined
on the plea of important work. Besides, I saw by the look in Patsey's
eyes that she also intended to refuse. I hoped that through some
remarkable coincidence we might meet in the garden "at home," as we had
the day before, but Caspian caught the coincidence this time, so I
sulked in the house with man's most faithful dumb companion, a pipe.
Caspian didn't stay with my little lady for long, so I hope she refused
him and got it over with. Anyhow, she was in a delicious mood all the
way to Kidd's Pines, as you may have assumed from the tone and indeed
the very existence of this letter. We talked of impersonal things, never
of ourselves and seldom of each other, and she was not as gay as when we
began the trip, yet--never had she been so dear.

I began this letter with a partial promise to abide by your advice; but
if you harshly tell me it's too late to change things, I'm afraid I
shall go full speed ahead just the same. I won't, however, decide till I
hear from you--not because I'm patient, but because the girl mustn't be
"rushed" in any case. Besides, I shall very likely not see her to-day. I
dropped the party at the door of Kidd's Pines in the dead middle of the
night (forgot to tell you Caspian didn't come with us, but turned tail
and went to New York: _another_ sign!), garaged the Grayles-Grice, and
biked to the village. I'll now try to sleep for an hour or two--less
because I'm tired than because I want to dream myself back in the path
of the moon, where walks Romance to greet me. My bed here, by the by,
usually reminds me of a rack out of commission. But to-day I don't care.
I shall find it a bed of roses.

Write as soon as you've thought things over, please. Or, better still,
wire: "Advise yes," or--but I won't think of the alternati