He sat a minute or two with Anne’s letter in his hand. The maiden lady,—“Mistress Anne” he liked to call her, after the Southern fashion his youth remembered,—Mistress Anne had, as the months went by, taken him quietly into the wide circle of her friendships. Her letters, however, were rare enough. She wrote many, but not often to Carington, although from Cuba he had written frequently.
He put aside all the other notes and, lighting a pipe, sat down with Anne’s letter, honestly glad of the kindly relation it suggested.
DEAR MR. CARINGTON: I have had a number of letters from you of late, and this is all I have been able to give in return. I have now to limit myself even as to this indulgence.
You won’t want to hear about the new books, and you will have, I presume, some quite absurd desire to know about my good people. A man would say, “Everybody quite well, thank you”; but, being a woman, I know better the masculine wants: only women write satisfactory letters.
My good brother is well, and shamefully busy at the game of the law. Mrs. Lyndsay is just now in bed. Dr. North comes daily; but Margaret’s maladies, which I must say are rare, are obstinate when they arrive. She has to read a report next week at a society for the prevention of something to something. If she lets that day go by in bed, I shall be alarmed. A dose of duty will cure her at any time. She requires large doses of pity when ill, and as to that I am grimly homeopathic.
Dick is at school—and Ned. They both want what no schools give, some man who will know how to educate the peculiar, and not insist that it be like the unpeculiar. As for Jack, he has begun to work, and takes it hard, and has more rows than ever. One envies England her India for these restless young Vikings. In a week we join Lyndsay on the river.
Carington looked at the date. It was two weeks old.
My niece is very well; as handsome as ever; rather too serious, as I think: one wants a little foolish vagueness in the young. It gives to the human landscape atmosphere, as the painters say. If you don’t know what I mean, I am sorry for you. I tell Col. Fox that is what the Quakers lack—atmosphere. (_I_ call that _very_ clever: _vide_ Ellett.) Fox says Friends _are_ rather definite,—think of the arrogance of calling themselves Friends, and a big _F_ also. This is the great and lovely liberty of the letter. It may wander like a gipsy. I think really I must go back and look. I meant to tell you what North said about tombstone biography. He called it “epitaffy.” Isn’t that lovely? Also, it has no manner of connection with the rest of this meandering screed.