Judge — August 22, 1914 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE FIRST It was just hard luck that he turned out to be right for once. It’ll probably never happen again! Well, I got back to my cabin safely and dressed slowly, so’s to give the mob time to fade, and here I am again, clothes, jap-brolly, beauty-spot and all, in the very same eand hollow as I scooped an hour ago, writing pad on knee, a-writing to U. You know what it’s like here, don't you? Little red-and- white striped tents all over the kitchen floor, so many children that you wonder how the papers have the nerve to talk about race-su-side, bathing boxes on wheels in long lines, like streets of suburban villas, rubbering guys in white flannels, fat old girls eating things wrapped up in greasy papers, and many other kinds of two-legged animals, while at the back of it all are miles and miles of expensive hotels, the Kursaal —which would be called a Casino anywhere else—flying flags of every nation so’s none shall be jealous; and lastly, on the fringe of the sea where the little waves splash three inch deep, dozens and dozens of bewtchus ladies in skin-tight ‘‘maillots’’ mer- maiding for all they are worth, while their brothers and cousins and husbands and nearly-relateds pretend to teach ’em to swim. Of course I know that U think our tight jersey costumes are just frightfully improper. Right. On the other hand, I do think that having to swim in stockings and a shortened evening gown is just frightfully uncomfy. When you wear stockings you can’t wibble your toes in the sand, and while the horrid wet things are drying I feel exactly as if I was in somebody else’s skin, and that really isn’t a decent sensation at all. Ye gods and little fishes, but how miserable I felt the first time I tried an over-arm stroke wearing elbow sleeves as U made me wear "em last time I was over in your country! Why, I was nearly drownded, Hist! A word in your ear, friend. . . . I do think I'd really rather be frightfully improper any day than frightfully un- comfy, so now you know, and next time U meet me in the street I shall not expect you to bow. Peter, the Boy-who- is-nearly-a-relation (I mentioned him last letter, didn’t 12), is down here, too. I’m rather glad. He looks a duck of a thing in ducks. His shoulders are naturally nearly as broad as American tailors used to build them, and his mid- dle part is as slinky as the ‘‘immaculate’’ hero of an Elinor Glyn novel. (Talking of novels, if U read French you ought to read Henri Duvernois’ Faubourg Montmartre. It's a corker!) Peter has a kind of an idea that some day he’s going to marry me. But it’s far more likely that I shall marry him, which is not at all the same thing. However, this Piece of seriousness won't be necessary fcr long, long years, SELECTION LThope. You see, I’ve really not quite got over that trial run I had in matrimony, and 1 kind of feel nervous of further ex- periences; though, after all, what does it matter if your heart is broken as long asyoucan pushapen? You collect the broken pieces and put ’em into books and sell 'em at a dollar anda half a time, and although the Great Public likes it the critics say, ‘‘How forced!" Last night Peter took me to the Kursaal; in his immac... (you'll stop me if I try and say that again, won’t you?) evening clothes he looked more Glyn-y than ever, and I—well, I hada new frock on, and mothers with marriageable daughters looked at me through their long-handled spyglass things and told each other that I couldn’t possibly be NICE, so I guess I was alright. For a while we pushed pretty little gold pieces about on a green table, but as the undertakerish-looking men in black raked ’em away as fast as we could possibly put them down, we gave up and left the job to others with richer, fatter purses—and richer, fatter bodies, too. (Funny how they often go together!) Outside on the terrasse there were cool drinks to be had by straws out of long glasses—sounds like the pedigree of a horse —and the band rumbled and jerked and crooned tango-i-ly. First we imbibed, then we danced. Peter does it rather well. I taught him, with the carpet up anda phonograph! Then we left these glittering delights behind us and went down to the beach and threw shells in the sea, and Peter proposed again and I said ‘‘yes’* absent-mindedly, and then he behaved as if we were engaged and it was rather jolly, only this morning I broke it off and he didn’t like it at all. He’s sulking now, but it won't last long. Now, dear U, don’t be shocked at your Sue Zannah. The dog —And they bought me because ! was fond of children! comicbooks.com