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,
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.