You must be deeply impressed by these millinery details.

One can’t help thinking, Daddy, what a colourless life a man is forced to lead, when one reflects that chiffon and Venetian point and hand embroidery and Irish crochet are to him mere empty words.  Whereas a woman—­whether she is interested in babies or microbes or husbands or poetry or servants or parallelograms or gardens or Plato or bridge—­is fundamentally and always interested in clothes.

It’s the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin.  (That isn’t original.  I got it out of one of Shakespeare’s plays).

However, to resume.  Do you want me to tell you a secret that I’ve lately discovered?  And will you promise not to think me vain?  Then listen: 

I’m pretty.

I am, really.  I’d be an awful idiot not to know it with three
looking-glasses in the room. 
                                           A Friend

PS.  This is one of those wicked anonymous letters you read about in novels.

20th December
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

I’ve just a moment, because I must attend two classes, pack a trunk and a suit-case, and catch the four-o’clock train—­but I couldn’t go without sending a word to let you know how much I appreciate my Christmas box.

I love the furs and the necklace and the Liberty scarf and the gloves and handkerchiefs and books and purse—­and most of all I love you!  But Daddy, you have no business to spoil me this way.  I’m only human—­ and a girl at that.  How can I keep my mind sternly fixed on a studious career, when you deflect me with such worldly frivolities?

I have strong suspicions now as to which one of the John Grier Trustees used to give the Christmas tree and the Sunday ice-cream.  He was nameless, but by his works I know him!  You deserve to be happy for all the good things you do.

Goodbye, and a very merry Christmas. 
                               Yours always,
                                               Judy

PS.  I am sending a slight token, too.  Do you think you would like her if you knew her?

11th January

I meant to write to you from the city, Daddy, but New York is an engrossing place.

I had an interesting—­and illuminating—­time, but I’m glad I don’t belong to such a family!  I should truly rather have the John Grier Home for a background.  Whatever the drawbacks of my bringing up, there was at least no pretence about it.  I know now what people mean when they say they are weighed down by Things.  The material atmosphere of that house was crushing; I didn’t draw a deep breath until I was on an express train coming back.  All the furniture was carved and upholstered and gorgeous; the people I met were beautifully dressed and low-voiced and well-bred, but it’s the truth, Daddy, I never heard one word of real talk from the time we arrived until we left.  I don’t think an idea ever entered the front door.