d some new books, and told a manicure
to call. Then we went in to breakfast.

It appears that the manicure person is a great catch, and you are very
lucky to get him without making an appointment long beforehand. He does
things to your feet, too, though I dared not ask what; and Mrs. Ess Kay
intended to stop in for him all the morning.

While she was talking about this, Sally was glancing over letters, and
there was one in which she seemed particularly interested. She looked
up from it suddenly, when Mrs. Ess Kay said she was not going out, and
exclaimed, "Oh, then I may have Betty. How nice, I do so want to show
her the Park."

"I'll go with you," Potter broke in quickly, but Sally shook her head.

"No, I want her to myself, thank you--just for this once."

Potter looked cross, but said no more, and it was arranged that Sally
and I should start in about an hour. Mrs. Ess Kay thought we ought to
get off at once, as it would be cooler; but for some reason Sally did
not like that idea. Meanwhile, she ran out herself on an errand, but
did not offer to take me.

Even people who have absolutely nothing to do except to amuse
themselves appear to like waking up and having breakfast much earlier
than we do. This morning, as usual, we had finished breakfast by half
past nine, and by a quarter past ten Sally had come back to fetch
Vivace and me for our walk.

I hadn't yet been shown Central Park. Mrs. Ess Kay said it was horrid
out of season; but Sally didn't agree with her; and I thought it
lovely, more like the Bois de Boulogne than our Park, and yet with an
extraordinary individuality of its own. There were only a few people of
our sort, riding or driving, but lots of children were playing about,
and it was wonderful that the trees and grass and flowers could have
kept so fresh through such tremendous heat. I'm sure if we had weather
like that in England the whole vegetable kingdom would go on strike.

Whether it was the beauty of the Park, or whether it was something in
herself, I don't know, but Sally Woodburn was in a sentimental mood.
She is generally full of fun, in her soft, quiet little way; but this
morning she was all poetry and romance. She quoted Tennyson, and
several modern American poets, whose names I was ashamed to say I
didn't even know, as their verses seemed charming; and when she had
found a certain narrow, shady path which she had been looking for,
suddenly she said, "Let's talk about love. What do