s if it were quite natural to tell a stranger his life story,
and he is perfectly direct--only you have to speak to him with the meaning
you intend in the words. Metaphor is not the least use: he answers
literally.

The church was shut, and as we had no excuse to stay out longer we strolled
back. He was intensely respectful, and he ended up by saying he found me
just the nicest girl he had seen "this side." I was so pleased. I hope he
will come on the rest of the way with us; we start at dawn. So good night,
dearest Mamma.

Your affectionate daughter,
ELIZABETH.

CANNES

CANNES.
HOTEL DU PARC.

Dearest Mamma,--You will be surprised to hear my plans! Octavia came over
from Monte Carlo directly we arrived, and in less than ten minutes had got
most of the story of Harry's and my quarrel out of me. I never meant to
tell her anything, but she is such a dear. She said at once that she should
take care of me, as she could not have me running about alone. And I really
can't stand any more of the honeymoon pair--and sitting three in the back
seat. So prepare yourself for a great surprise, Mamma! I am going to
America with Tom and Octavia! They sail in the Lusitania next Saturday and
we are flying back to England tonight. I shan't have any clothes but I
don't care; I shall not worry over that. We are going to see New York and
then go right out to California, where Tom is going on to Mexico to kill
tarpons or shoot turtles or whatever they do there.

The rest of our journey after Tonnerre was simple. At each place Mr. Renour
was just in front of us, and showed us the way, and we grew quite to feel
he was one of our party. Uncle John is devoted to him--and Aunt Maria, too.
She says considering he speaks a foreign language--he does almost!--it is
wonderful how he makes her hear!

Avignon interested me. It looks so wally and fortified, but I am greatly
disappointed, the romantic story of Petrarque and his Laure is all
nonsense. I find Laure had eleven children in about fifteen years, the
guide said, and Petrarque continued making sonnets to her, never minding
that a bit. Now do you believe it, Mamma? A man to stay in love for twenty
years with a woman who kept on having eleven children all the image of the
husband as good as gold! I don't! Petrarque was probably some tiresome prig
like all poets, and thought her a suitable peg to hang his verses on.

Mr. Renour and I are so friendly. He is not with us now becaus