I have
bumped my head against the table three times, as penance, and will
now try to turn my thoughts into right channels. This letter is a
black-and-white evidence that _I_ have not a frivolous order of mind,
and have always been misunderstood from my birth up to this date.)
We have had beautiful weather since--but no, of course Phil will tell
you about the weather, for that is scarcely an amusing topic. I do
want to be as prudent as possible, for Uncle Doc is going to read all
the letters (not, of course, aloud) and see whether we have fulfilled
our specific obligations.
(I just asked Bell whether 'specific' had a 'c' or an's in the
middle, and she answered '"c," of course,' with such an air, you
should have heard her! I had to remind her of the time she spelled
'Tophet' with an 'f' in the middle; then she subsided.)
(I just read this last paragraph to Madge, to see if she called it
gossip, as I was going to take it out if it belonged to her topic,
but she said No, she didn't call it gossip at all--that she should
call it slander!)
You don't know how we all long to see you, dear darling that you are.
We live in the hope of having you with us very soon, and meanwhile
the beautiful bedstead is almost finished, and a perfect success. (I
wish to withdraw the last three quarters of that sentence, for
obvious reasons!!)
Dear, dear! Geoffrey calls 'Time up,' and I've scarcely said
anything I should. Never, never again will I submit to this method
of correspondence; it is absolutely petrifying to one's genius.
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