There are no servants—think of it, Mumsy.
I wish you had made me learn to cook. Mr. Harbison
has shown me a little—he was a soldier
in the Spanish War—but we girls are a terribly
ignorant lot, Mumsy, about the real things of life.
Now, don’t worry. It is more sport than
camping in the Adirondacks, and not nearly so damp.
Your loving daughter, Katherine.
P.S.—South America must be wonderful.
Why can’t we put the Gadfly in commission, and
take a coasting trip this summer? It is a shame
to own a yacht and never use it. K.
This note, evidently delivered
by Messenger, was found among
other Litter in the vestibule
after the lifting of the
quarantine.
Mr. Alex Dodds, City Editor, Mail and Star:
Dear D.—Can’t get a picture.
Have waited seven hours. They have closed the
shutters.
McCord.
Written on the back of the
above note.
Watch the roof.
Dodds.
The most charitable thing would be to say nothing
about the first day. We were baldly brutal—that’s
the only word for it. And Mr. Harbison, with
his beautiful courtesy—the really sincere
kind—tried to patch up one quarrel after
another and failed. He rose superbly to the occasion,
and made something that he called a South American
goulash for luncheon, although it was too salty, and
every one was thirsty the rest of the day.
Bella was horrid, of course. She froze Jim until
he said he was going to sit in the refrigerator and
cool the butter. She locked herself in the dressing
room—it had been assigned to me, but that
made no difference to Bella—and did her
nails, and took three different baths, and refused
to come to the table. And of course Jimmy was
wild, and said she would starve. But I said,
“Very well, let her starve. Not a tray shall
leave my kitchen.” It was a comfort to
have her shut up there anyhow; it postponed the time
when she would come face to face with Flannigan.
Aunt Selina got sick that day, as I have said.
I was not so bitter as the others; I did not say that
I wished she would die. The worst I ever wished
her was that she might be quite ill for some time,
and yet, when she began to recover, she was dreadful
to me. She said for one thing, that it was the
hard-boiled eggs and the state of the house that did
it, and when I said that the grippe was a germ, she
retorted that I had probably brought it to her on
my clothing.
