n impossible to squeeze out a scrap in which to write
you, and yet I have wanted to do so, for I am sure you will be glad to
know how fearfully happy I am and what is causing the happiness. I am
in love. It is the most wonderful thing I have ever been in, and
thrillingly interesting. I suppose you have been in it many times, but
not my way, or you would have mentioned it, just as I am doing to you,
as we are such old friends, and friends have the right to know of
important happenings. I hope you will like each other when you meet,
for, though you are very unlike, you are both made of male material,
and I have often noticed that men have many peculiarities in common.
One of them is out of sight out of love, and a great readiness to be
admired and entertained. He is a lawyer and couldn't be better born,
though he might be better educated; still, one mustn't expect all
things in one man, and his eyes are so wonderful, and he uses such
poetic prose, that the lack of money and a few other lacks shouldn't
count. He lives in a beautiful old house which has proud traditions
and no bathrooms, and his family is one of the oldest and most
disagreeable in America; still, we would not have to live with them if
we were married. Nothing on earth could make me sleep under the same
roof with his sisters, who are so churchy that the minister himself is
subject under them. And neither would it be safe for me to be too
closely associated with his mother. However, things of that sort are
in the distance, which may be far or may not, and I am not thinking of
immediate marriage, but just how magnificent it is to have somebody in
love with you who knows how to say so in the most delicious way, and
with a voice that, when the moon is out, is truly heavenly. I am
telling you about it because I thought you might be interested and
would like to know of my happiness; but, of course, I don't want you to
tell any one else, as it is still a secret and all so indefinite that
it wouldn't do to speak of it to any one but you. I am scribbling this
in the middle of the night, because I can't sleep for thinking of some
one, and because there is no time in the day in which to write. I hope
you are having a great time. Give my love to the family and write me
of your gladness at knowing of mine._

_As ever,
Kitty._

Now what do you suppose made me write such slush as that? And why is a
female person born with such horridness in her that