A Duet (with an occasional chorus) | Page 3

Albans, June 4th.
My Dearest Frank,--We nearly called in the doctor after your dear old

preposterous letter. My mother gasped upon the sofa while I read her
some extracts. That I, the daughter of the house, should be married in
my old black and white tennis-dress, which I wore at the Arlingtons' to
save my nice one! Oh, you are simply splendid sometimes! And the
learned way in which you alluded to my alpaca. As a matter of fact, it's
a merino, but that doesn't matter. Fancy your remembering my
wardrobe like that! And wanting me to wear them all for years! So I
shall, dear, secretly, when we are quite quite alone. But they are all out
of date already, and if in a year or so you saw your poor dowdy wife
with tight sleeves among a roomful of puff-shouldered young ladies,
you would not be consoled even by the memory that it was in that dress
that you first . . . you know!
As a matter of fact, I MUST have my dress to be married in. I don't
think mother would regard it as a legal marriage if I hadn't, and if you
knew how nice it will be, you would not have the heart to interfere with
it. Try to picture it, silver-grey--I know how fond you are of greys--a
little white chiffon at neck and wrists, and the prettiest pearl trimming.
Then the hat en suite, pale-grey lisse, white feather and brilliant buckle.
All these details are wasted upon you, sir, but you will like it when you
see it. It fulfils your ideal of tasteful simplicity, which men always
imagine to be an economical method of dressing, until they have wives
and milliners' bills of their own.
And now I have kept the biggest news to the last. Mother has been to
Madame, and she says that if she works all night, she will have
everything ready for the 30th. O Frank, does it not seem incredible!
Next Tuesday three weeks. And the banns! Oh my goodness, I am
frightened when I think about it! Dear old boy, you won't tire of me,
will you? Whatever should I do if I thought you had tired of me! And
the worst of it is, that you don't know me a bit. I have a hundred
thousand faults, and you arc blinded by your love and cannot see them.
But then some day the scales will fall from your eyes, and you will
perceive the whole hundred thousand at once. Oh, what a reaction there
will be! You will see me as I am, frivolous, wilful, idle, petulant, and
altogether horrid. But I do love you, Frank, with all my heart, and soul,
and mind, and strength, and you'll count that on the other side, won't
you? Now I am so glad I have said all this, because it is best that you
should know what you should expect. It will be nice for you to look

back and to say, 'She gave me fair warning, and she is no worse than
she said.' O Frank, think of the 30th.
P.S.--I forgot to say that I had a grey silk cape, lined with cream, to go
with the dress. It is just sweet!
So that is how they arranged about the date.





CHAPTER II
--THE OVERTURE CONTINUED--IN A MINOR KEY

Woking, June 7th.
My Own Dearest Maude,--How I wish you were here, for I have been
down, down, down, in the deepest state of despondency all day. I have
longed to hear the sound of your voice, or to feel the touch of your
hand! How can I be despondent, when in three weeks I shall be the
husband of the dearest girl in England? That is what I ask myself, and
then the answer comes that it is just exactly on that account that my
wretched conscience is gnawing at me. I feel that I have not used you
well; I owe you reparation, and I don't know what to do.
In your last dear letter you talk about being frivolous. YOU have never
been frivolous. But I have been frivolous--for ever since I have learned
to love you, I have been so wrapped up in my love, with my happiness
gilding everything about me, that I have never really faced the prosaic
facts of life or discussed with you what our marriage will really
necessitate. And now, at this eleventh hour, I realise that I have led you
on in ignorance to an act which will perhaps take a great deal of the
sunshine out of your life. What have I to offer you in exchange for the
sacrifice which you will make for me? Myself, my love,