bed, though she's glad to see him of course. If only I could
retaliate in kind, couldn't I be cattish? But _noblesse oblige_!

Jack and I are as proud as Punch (and Judy) that the travel letters make
you both want to come and do likewise. Ah, if you could! But we'll do
as you ask: go on as we've begun, and so if possible carry you with us
in spirit. I say "we," because, though I do the writing, Jack has been
keeping rough, joggly notes taken down _en automobile_ for me to
incorporate in my letters to you. We were at Awepesha only a few days
after I wrote you last, because Sir George Bingham and his wife, who are
distant cousins of Jack's, arrived in New York after exciting adventures
in the East, and as they couldn't leave town we went to visit them at
their hotel. Just for the first day it was quite a relief to have
something new to think of, and not worry my gray matter constantly over
Patricia Moore's affairs, but the second day I was dying to know how
things were going at Kidd's Pines; and when the time came to join the
party (as we had promised) for the New England trip, I was all joy and
excitement at the thought of plunging into the vortex again--in spite of
the visit to Aunt Mary looming ahead. And then, I'm always happy to be
in a car. Not that I love all cars indiscriminately--I don't. I love the
one I'm in, and tolerate those that others are in when the weather's
fine. In dust and mud I loathe all except my own, and feel they have no
right to exist. Indeed, _none_ have quite the individuality they used to
have when they were a new breed of beasts; don't you find it so? Nothing
ever happens to the good ones. They never break down and sob by the
roadside and have to be petted and comforted by their mothers and
fathers, as in the dear dead days of long ago. Of course we hated to
have them break down then, and longed for the time when they should be
improved beyond that stage, but I do find them a little _too_ eugenic
now.

Well, to go back to the creatures who haven't improved--ourselves and
others.

Jack and I had our auto in New York, so we started from there, as
before, and this time met the procession at Rye. Only think, on the way,
after crossing the Bronx River we paused a few minutes to gaze at a
cottage where Edgar Allan Poe once lived. It didn't look a bit like him,
or as if he could have lived there, but we were glad to have seen it. As
for New Rochelle, it's as pretty and fresh and fashionable as a