that I feared to breathe, lest I
disturb the solitude--the sky wasn't heavy and gray, but clear and blue
and seemed like a soft silken canopy that the gaunt maples upheld to
protect me and my love, and the virgin snow that fell on my outstretched
arms in soft little rosettes that disappeared as our loves sometimes do
when they have but let us feel the deliciousness of their possession.

The heavy old door between my room and his creaked with rustiness and
age, as for the first time in years it turned upon its hinges. Carlton
had watched for my last good-night signal and grew alarmed at its
absence and my quietude.

I wonder why I didn't feel embarrassed--all I know is that after he
discovered a comfortable angle in my Morris, I crawled into his arms and
lay there quietly without a word until dawn the next morning. Our sleep
was rhythmic, just like our love. What a strange beautiful night we
passed and how difficult it would be to make the world believe!

Awakening, I felt something cold around my neck, and there, dear girl,
he had fastened pearls while I slept in his arms. I cannot even imagine
their value, as I know nothing of jewels but how to accept and wear
them.

Such a gift is wonderful at any time, but how much more subtly charming
to have it fastened on you as you lay, comfy and subconscious in his
strong and doubtless aching arms. Such peace, peace, dear, would have
benumbed Napoleon; but I need few other interests--my universe begins at
his head and ends at his feet.

This is the purest jag of joy that I have ever been on in my life, and I
wonder that one small blonde woman is able to allow herself so much
spark and not have her engines explode.

I always fancied that I should die if such an ideal existence even
attempted to show its face to me; and instead, I take my soup before
it's cold, put my shoes on my feet, my hat on my head, retire and arise
at the usual hours.

He embroiders his talk with bungalows, steam yachts and motor cars for
the future, while I fear to buy a pair of boots before a consultation
with my trousers pocket. I find myself imprisoned in a banker's
portfolio, floundering in statements covered with red ink. He doesn't
dream that such is the case, or all his funds would be at my disposal.
Somehow, if I had my decree, I should tell him; but while I am still
someone's else wife I cannot take his money--it would soil my emotions.

Yesterday, while opening a crate for me, he cut his