I would, as she phrazed it, "put him out of my silly head."

"I shall have to write one letter, mother," I said, "to--to break things
off. I cannot tear myself out of another's Life without a word."

She sniffed.

"Very well," she said. "One letter. I trust you to make it only one."

I come now to the next day. How true it is, that "Man's life is but a
jest, a dream, a shadow, bubble, air, a vapour at the best!"

I spent the morning with mother at the dressmakers and she chose two
perfectly spiffing things, one of white chiffon over silk, made modafied
Empire, with little bunches of roses here and there on it, and when she
and the dressmaker were hagling over the roses, I took the scizzors and
cut the neck of the lining two inches lower in front. The effect was
posatively impressive. The other was blue over orkid, a perfectly
passionate combination.

When we got home some of the girls had dropped in, and Carter Brooks
and Sis were having tea in the den. I am perfectly sure that Sis threw
a cigarette in the fire when I went in. When I think of my sitting here
alone, when I have done NOTHING, and Sis playing around and smoking
cigarettes, and nothing said, all for a difference of 20 months, it
makes me furious.

"Let's go in and play with the children, Leila," he said. "I'm feeling
young today."