You might
gently prepare Aunt Caroline by some mention of an improved
appetite.
I had a letter from Aunt Caroline yesterday. That is to say, three
letters. When you included (by request) "positively no letter
writing" in my holiday menu, you did not make it plain who it was
that was positively not to write. So, although she tells me sadly
that she expects no answers, Aunt Caroline positively does. I may
say at once that I know all the news.
On the other hand, there is some news which Aunt Caroline does not
know. Owing to your embargo on letters, I have not been able to
inform my Aunt of the progress of my book, nor of my discovery of
the perfect secretary. I have not, in short, been able to tell her
anything.
So you will have to do it for me.
But first, as man to man, I want to ask you a question. Having
found, by an extraordinary turn of luck, the perfect secretary,
would you consider me sane if I let her go? Of course you would not.
I asked myself the same question yesterday and received the same
answer.
So I have asked her to marry me.
I put it that way because I know you like to have things broken to
you. And now, having heard all your objections (oh, yes, I can hear
them. Distance is only an idea) I shall proceed to answer them.--
No. It is not unwise to marry a young girl whom I scarcely know. Why
man! That is part of the game. Think of the boredom of having to
live with some one you know? Someone in whose house of life you need
expect no odd corners, no unlooked for turnings, no steps up, or
down, no windows with a view? Only a madman would face such
monotony.
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