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barred from committing sins of the flesh may still commit sins of the spirit in plenty.
Bob has taken Cynthia to town, and he and Katharine are “bringing her out,” whatever that means. So far as I can make out, Bob now has two establishments on his hands, - one here in the country, and one in town, and he and Katharine are as much buried in the details of running them as though they were partners in a large business house. Bob's mail alone, he tells me, is a daily avalanche, and Katharine, poor sister, has two cooks, two kitchen maids, two everything, to maneuvre through the labyrinth of life. Bob, who has a shelf full of Fairman Rogers, and Underhill, and Howlett, and the Lord knows who else, on
else, on “Driving,” etc., etc., came to me, wringing his hands in despair, because the cab company turned him out
with both coachman and footman with ex
actly the same number of buttons on their greatcoats. You and I, poor fools, do not know that the footman should have six but
tons on the tails of his coat, and the coachman only four, but five buttons on the front of his coat, and the coachman six. Thus, you see, there are multitudinous troubles in life of which we have no inkling even. We are spared something by our ignorance. There is a fourth dimension of space in etiquette into which we have never penetrated. Think how complicated life may be to those who know so much! I rather admire Bob, though, for his thoroughness. He has a dogged way of getting to the root of even trivial matters, that promises great things if he is ever confronted with a big problem. There's a young man who rides his world - such as it is — for you! But I know you like him as much as I do. I will tell you more of them some day. I want to write “The Log of a Débutante," but Cynthia and Katharine, Cynthia's mamma, tell me that the theme is too intricate and altogether beyond my powers.
Don't make an ass of yourself just pour passer le temps. I repeat the cry of the man who peddles candies through the cars before the train starts : " Remember the little ones at home!” I am, Yours (don't make me less so),
I have not written you for three weeks, because I have not had the stomach for it; your last letter was so ponderously didactic, so out of proportion to any little fault I may
have committed in your eyes, that it seemed like Jove choosing his heaviest bolt of lightning with which to kill a little child. You say, “For God's sake, don't whine if you ever get a licking.” I pray what has ever led you to suppose I would whine? There are other consolations in the hour of trouble besides whining, religion, or drink. I'm not likely to take to any of the above three. You inveigh against selfishness, and yet admit you find it diffi
cult to “
cover yourself with the garments of others when they are with you.” In other words, it would seem you are so wrapped up in yourself that it is painful for you to wear the sackcloth of others for a moment, while they rest. Perhaps this is a form of selfishness — who knows? Take Charles Reade's advice, and put yourself in his place.
One more reason why I have not written before, is because I could only write on one subject, and of that I know you would disapprove, but, if you care to hear from me at all, it must be of my ravings, for surely am I possessed of a devil. Again I say frankly, I have no respect for the opinion of a clergyman in regard to temptation and sin, of which he knows nothing except by hearsay. What would you think of a doctor who attempted a case of which he knew