CHAPTER VI.

DEAR BETTY: I’m inclosing that cold-cream recipe you asked for. It’s warranted to give you a perfect complexion, keep your hair in curls, your hat on straight and your temper amiable. I’m glad to hear that you and Maurice have had an understanding, and that everything is all serene. If you have to be in love with somebody, I honestly think it’s much better to be in love with your husband. De Mille, of course, was out of the question, but fortunately I’ve never felt the necessity of being in love with anyone, and, now that I’ve reached the age of twenty-four, it’s not probable that I ever will. Confidentially, Betty, I never could see what you saw in Maitland. His eyes are good, I grant you, but he’s so terribly sentimental. I’ve flirted with him, so I know him. Next to living with a man, there’s nothing like a good flirtation to put you on to all his good and bad qualities. Your husband is worth a hundred of him. I _know_.

My dear, I’m earning my own living, and, according to the Willoughbys, it’s the most extravagant thing I’ve done in the whole course of my extravagant career. You see, every time I remember I’m a working woman, I feel independent, and order a lot of new things, and the bills have been rather stiff, I’ll admit. But you know how miserly the Willoughbys are! Aunt Susan suggested that I figure up how much I’m going to get and try to live on it, but I declined most emphatically. I never was good at doing sums, and I don’t propose to begin to subtract and add at this late day. Besides, I haven’t the remotest idea how much I’m going to receive, for I refuse to let Mr. Ormsby mention the matter. Money matters are _so tiresome_. But I’m forgetting that you know nothing about my _job_. I’m a model--a literary man’s model. You’re in with that literary set, so I suppose you’ve read his books. I read one--Billie Scott raved so about it that I simply had to--but there wasn’t a woman in it, just a lot of horrid men, that smoked and swore when they weren’t fighting, and that fought when they weren’t swearing and smoking. It seems that Mr. Ormsby’s publishers have insisted upon his turning over a new leaf and writing something about women, and, knowing nothing about our sex, Betty, he conceived the strictly original idea of employing a model. I came down to Rosemount in Billie’s motor car, and picked him--Mr. Ormsby--up and took him along with me. We had quite a romantic meeting. I found him eating his luncheon by the roadside, and insisted on his sharing it with me. I give him “sittings” every afternoon in an adorable bungalow that he’s fitted up as a workshop. He explained to me, in the beginning, that he might have picked out some woman of his acquaintance and studied her, but that he considered it wouldn’t be honorable--that with a hired model he felt absolutely independent. I really can’t endure him, but I’ve resolved to stick this out to the bitter end. I feel like a little wiggly bug pinned to a piece of cardboard, with a pair of sharp, cold, gray eyes analyzing every wiggle. This Ormsby is shockingly lacking in _savoir faire_, and so far as flirting is concerned, he doesn’t know the a, b, c’s of the game.

I began this letter yesterday afternoon, before dinner, with the hope of getting it out in the evening mail, but Billie and Ernie Francis came down from town and stopped to dinner. I’m sure the Willoughbys have never been so gay in their lives--we’ve had company every day since I’ve been down here--but I can’t see that it has improved Aunt Susan’s disposition much. Something occurred last night that I suppose has shoved me a peg further down in Mr. Ormsby’s estimation. Not that I care! After dinner, Billie and Ernie and I went for a walk down to the village. It was very dark coming back, and, walking between them, naturally I didn’t resent it when each took one of my hands. There’s something so _comforting_ about the grasp of a strong man’s hand. Haven’t you often thought so, Betty? If I ever marry again, I intend to pick out a man who will be able to hold my hand in a nice way when I’m dying.

Unfortunately, as we came around a bend in the road, a lantern was flashed at us. It was Ormsby, and you can’t imagine the look of disgust on his face when he took in the situation. As though it were any business of his! I had a wretched evening, for Billie and Ernie were furious because I permitted each to hold my hand. They have _such queer ideas_ of propriety! How little real pleasure one gets out of life, Betty! Louise has sent me down one of those _bébé_ hats--a perfect dream. I intend to wear it to church to-morrow morning and give the villagers a treat.

By the way, dear, if you’ve any old clothes to dispose of, send them down here. I’ve discovered a poor family--father out of work, mother sick, baby three days old. They are absolutely destitute. I’ve ordered a beautiful christening robe for the baby, and have had the bill sent to Uncle Jacob. I intend to be its godmother. But why will those people insist on having so many children, Betty? Six in this family! _Fancy!_ I’ve a good mind to write to the President, and insist on his providing for them. This man, even when he works, doesn’t make enough to support two--to say nothing of six. The baby is quite pretty, except that its nose is inclined to spread. I’ve explained to the mother how, by pinching it every day, she can get it into quite a respectable shape. You see, the baby’s a girl, and much will depend upon its nose. If mine were Roman instead of _retroussé_, I would probably have been a bluestocking and respected by Mr. Ormsby. Not that I care, though!

Lovingly, JANE.

P. S.--I wish you’d leave an order at a bookstand to have all his books sent down. Have them sent c. o. d. to Uncle Jacob.