O DEAR, Gordon, I have been reading the most upsetting book!

I tried to talk some French the other day, and not making out
very well, decided that I had better take my French in hand if I
didn't want to lose it entirely. That Scotch doctor of ours has
mercifully abandoned my scientific education, so I have a little
time at my own disposal. By some unlucky chance I began with
"Numa Roumestan," by Daudet. It is a terribly disturbing book
for a girl to read who is engaged to a politician. Read it,
Gordon dear, and assiduously train your character away from
Numa's. It's the story of a politician who is disquietingly
fascinating (like you). Who is adored by all who know him (like
you). Who has a most persuasive way of talking and makes
wonderful speeches (again like you). He is worshiped by
everybody, and they all say to his wife, "What a happy life you
must lead, knowing so intimately that wonderful man!"

But he wasn't very wonderful when he came home to her--only
when he had an audience and applause. He would drink with every
casual acquaintance, and be gay and bubbling and expansive; and
then return morose and sullen and down. "Joie de rue, douleur de
maison," is the burden of the book.

I read it till twelve last night, and honestly I didn't sleep
for being scared. I know you'll be angry, but really and truly,
Gordon dear, there's just a touch too much truth in it for my
entire amusement. I didn't mean ever to refer again to that
unhappy matter of August 20,--we talked it all out at the time,--
but you know perfectly that you need a bit of watching. And I
don't like the idea. I want to have a feeling of absolute