"The house party is upon us," she wrote, "and, though they're
really very nice, they ARE a little of the west, westy. But
there's only one girl, Daisy Dow, who's MUCH that way, and I
rather think I can manage her. But already she has warned me not
to interfere with her young man! As if I would!"
Just here, Patty's cheeks grew red again, and she changed the
subject of her epistolary progress.
"The baby is a perfect darling, and her parents are very nice
people. TERRIBLY devoted to the infant, but of course that's to be
expected. Roger is a comfort. It's so nice to have an old friend
here among all these strangers. Oh, and there's an artist who, I
know, spells his art with a big A. He wants to paint me as 'Cherry
Ripe' or something, I forget what. But I know his portraits will
look just like magazine covers. Though,--I suppose I AM rather of
that type myself. Oh, me! I wish I were a tall, dark beauty, with
melting brown eyes and midnight tresses, instead of a tow-headed,
doll-faced thing. But then, as the poet says, 'We women cannot
choose our lot.' I'm in for a good time, there's no doubt about
that. We've parties and picnics and pageants piled up mountain
high. So if I don't write again very soon, you'll know it's
because I'm a Social Butterfly for the time being, and these are
my Butterfly Days.
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