The roses are glorious. I bury my face in them down to the thorns. And then I come over and sign my name as the indispensable
I have had a note from Beverley, asking whether he could come this evening. I have written that I have an appointment, but I did not enlighten him as to the appointment being with you. Why not let him suffer awhile? I will explain afterwards. I told him that I could perhaps arrange to divide the evening; would you mind? And would you mind coming early? I will do as much for you some time, and _I suspect I couldn't do more_!
P.S.--Rather than come for the first half of the evening perhaps you would prefer to _postpone_ your visit _altogether_. It would suit me just as well; _better_ in fact. There really was something very _particular_, Tilly dear, that I wanted to talk to Ben about to-night.
I shall not look for you at all _this_ evening, _best_ of friends.
The very particular something to talk to Ben about to-night is the identical something for every other night. And nothing could be more characteristic of you, as soon as you heard that my visit would clash with one of his, than your eagerness to push me partly out of the house in a hurried letter and then push me completely out in a quiet postscript. Being a woman, I understand your temptation and your tactics. I fully sympathise with you.
Continue in ease of mind, my most trusted intimate. I shall not drop in to interrupt you and Ben--both not so young as you once were and both getting stout--heavy Polly, heavy Ben--as you sit side by side in your little Franklin Flat parlour. That parlour always suggests to me an enormous turnip hollowed out square: with no windows; with a hole on one side to come in and a hole on the other side to go out; upholstered in enormous bunches of beets and horse-radish, and lighted with a wilted electric sunflower. There you two will sit to-night, heavy Polly, heavy Ben, suffocating for fresh air and murmuring to each other as you have murmured for years:
One sentence in your letter, Polly dear, takes your photograph like a camera; the result is a striking likeness. That sentence is this:
"Why not let him suffer awhile? I will explain afterwards."
That is exactly what you will do, what you would always do: explain afterwards. In other words, you plot to make Ben jealous but fear to make him too jealous lest he desert you. If on the evening of this visit you should forget "to explain," and if during the night you should remember, you would, if need were, walk barefoot through the streets in your nightgown and tap on his window-shutter, if you could reach it, and say: "Ben, that appointment wasn't with any other man; it was with Tilly. I could not sleep until I had told you!"