Dearest Father:—

I don’t know whether or not I have explained to you sufficiently about my vacation; but I do know that the work and life in general are going more smoothly now than for some time past, and that with the spring more or less broken into by one thing and another, I am only too glad to have a steady stretch in which to work without any more interruptions than necessary. I shouldn’t know what to do with myself for two or three months’ vacation, and the present arrangement, of having the month of August and every other Monday off, seems ideal to me.

For over a month we have doubled up, Marje and I, and are just twice as happy as we were. You will remember that the marginal space in which I lived and moved, always carefully, around my bed, was small to say the least (certainly Madame gave me bed and board!), and what was worse, it was in the other apartment from Marje. By a strange system of two keys hung on each front door, passing across from one apartment to the other was made as difficult as possible. We called it going through the portcullis, having no idea what that meant. And next to Marje’s room was the big salon of the apartment, thriftily converted by Madame into a bedroom and exclusively tenanted by the wife of a French officer. To her I made appeal one fine day—after hours of egging on and double-daring, etc.—that she exchange rooms with me. Here she was surrounded by gray paneling, a bay window, a carved marble mantelpiece, and easy access to the dining-room; whereas I had to offer her a room of no size, no sunlight, the pink wall-paper, red leather armchair, and chimney that won’t draw. However, there must have been something in my manner, or even something in my smile, or in the fact that my room was two francs a day cheaper and had running water in the cabinet, that made her want to exchange. Also, the doors to the salon are broad and made of glass with only china silk curtains to protect one, and she felt—happily—that it wasn’t quite convenable for a chambre À coucher. Tuesday morning dawned. All the maids turned out in excitement. Madame was everywhere at once, particularly where a poor little sandy-haired tapissier was doing his best to move a two-ton armoire; the whole idea was considered so bizarre—to have one room as bedroom, with two armoires at once—that the work of it all presented thrills. I never saw such dust and flurry, or such an accumulation of junk as I extracted from my former nest.

Slowly we settled. We would stand of an evening like newly-weds in the newly acquired dominion and plan our furnishings. Yellow and black was to be the color scheme, with my lampshade and piano as keynotes—two armchairs and a divan to be covered with something, and the traces of the era Minard (the officer’s wife) to be eliminated. The lace tidies came off, the pictures of Calvary likewise, the strips of carpet put under the bed, and the statuettes and vases hidden. There was a washstand, a double-decker, and a Japanese screen to be disposed of somehow without Madame’s guessing that we weren’t wild about her furniture. It was days before we dared act. Marje did it. I should have told Madame that we were navrÉes not to have enough room to keep them and would they be safe in the cellar? but Marje—a diplomatic one—asked Madame if she thought it was quite comme il faut for two young girls to have a washstand in their salon? and with a “I should think not!” it was gone.

We looked at cretonnes—plain stripes; then wiggly stripes with roses and a conventional basket; then a formal design of children playing by a table; and on and on—always introducing yellow. Suddenly we saw our cretonne. A big gray pot of deep-rose peonies, with little white birds hovering over, and a little blue wistaria, all against a blue-and-gray lattice, with ultimate background of black. It is gorgeous. The design is twenty-seven inches high. We bought yards and yards—not to say metres and metres.

Then came upholstering. We worked with pins and warm language, and in five days had covered the divan, two armchairs, and six pillows. Marje did the pinning. I did the cutting. Then two long straight curtains beside the glass doors.

As for our yellow, my wonderful tea-set that I told you about, and some candlesticks painted yellow, and some bright yellow and black-and-tan striped pillows and the lampshade are the only yellow things. In the cretonne was only one pale lemon-colored flower; but I am slowly going round with my little brush and painting in the right yellow with water-colors. It’s wonderful, all of it.

Then we have a nest of tables of plain unvarnished wood that I got for nineteen francs—four tables for less than four dollars—and we fight constantly as to whether they are to be painted cream or black. You can imagine how lovely my black leather writing-pad that you gave me looks on the table, and with Leo sunning in the bay window, why, Mme. de SÉvignÉ need not apply; and I forgot a gorgeous blue hydrangea that Marje gave me for my birthday.

You can’t imagine what a difference it makes to have a place to breathe in, and to play in, and to read the “New Republic” in, and to sew in, and to have afternoon tea in, etc. We feel so settled and permanent. Just wait until the war ends and you all come over to call!

I think we both feel a good deal better for the change. The Shurtleff car has been running fairly well lately.

I must tell you about my birthday—Marje wished me merry birthday the first thing in the morning, and then over at the Vestiaire Miss Curtis and Miss Sturgis presented me with a jar of real guava jelly. They had some left over from a steamer box when I first came, and remembered how fond I was of it. I was tremendously pleased to have any one think of my birthday, over here where everything is so different.

I went visiting all morning and took packages for prisoners, in the car, and sent them off. In the afternoon Marje and I did more visiting and hurried home for tea at five. Mrs. Shurtleff and Gertrude had tea with us and admired the salon, which had lately been fixed up, and then Miss Curtis blew in. She was going away the next day for two days to the country and wanted the Association car to go to the Ford place in her absence. She mentioned also some chairs and tables to be delivered up in Montmartre and a bed that had to go to Neuilly. It was after half-past five,—still later, I guess,—and she looked dead. So we offered to do it for her. She is always so wonderful to us. The car had the things all loaded on, but it’s always a job to go to Montmartre. The streets go straight uphill—so straight that they often end in a flight of steps, not marked on the map, and you have to back down and try another. Finally, we found the little back alley which was our first stop. The concierge’s husband helped unload the table and chairs and he was obsequiously drunk. He was too polite for words, and after the furniture was installed he explained that he was no mover, but a marchand de vin, and wouldn’t ces dames step in pour se refraichir. I couldn’t believe what he was saying, and Marje got hysterical over my tact (so-called), and I wanted to start off quickly, but dignifiedly. The car wouldn’t move. Crowds gathered. Suddenly I bethought myself of pushing the car—it was so very steep. But, of course, we were headed wrong, and you never can start the engine by pushing the car when you’re going backwards. However, we decided to push until we came to a cross street and could then turn around. We did this amid cheers. Then Marje took off the brake and let her coast. Not a leaf stirring. She said the carburetor must be wrong, and that she needed priming. So I pulled out the primer, backing along the cobblestones as fast as I could while the car coasted; all women and children drawing hastily away at the sight of a girl apparently pulling a camion down the street with one finger. But she started that way, and off we went. One has to be habile quelquefois. I think that Santa Claus in the shape of a lady from America is bringing us a self-starter.

Then out to Neuilly with the bed. The poor little woman that we took it to was overjoyed, as she and her children had taken turns sleeping on the floor ever since theirs had gone from their home lÀ-bas.

Finally to Maison Ford just outside of Paris. We left the car, walked back to the gates of Paris, and started to go home in the Metro. We happened to notice that it was twenty minutes of eight and home three quarters of an hour away.

So we went to Premier’s, one of my favorite places. Marje gave me the dinner of my life: lobster and real ice cream. I began talking about all my different birthdays, especially the one at college when I took my last exam and my ring came. I shall never forget that afternoon. Maidie and I had dinner at Rahar’s, where we were forbidden to go without a chaperon, and she bet me the dinner that I wouldn’t dare go up to the head of the philosophy department, whom we didn’t know at all, but who was there, and ask him to chaperon us. Of course I did, and of course he was lovely, and came and sat with us a few minutes and said he hoped we’d take his courses some day when we grew up—and I a senior!

Then I told Marje about Bailey’s and Stetson’s and the ocean and everything. Gee! but we had a great time—I’ve almost stopped saying “Gee.”

After dinner we found a horse cab in front of the restaurant and drove home. It was late twilight, and as we crossed the Concorde, we saw a tremendous big yellow full moon rising over Notre Dame. I nearly always stop when I’m driving over the Concorde bridge because I love that view down the river so, but the cab went so slowly we didn’t have to. It was all purple and gold, with the yellow moon and reflections in the Seine. I never saw such an evening.

The next morning I received your dear cable and that pleased me more than anything else. Thank you all for thinking of me. I’ve never been so far away before, have I?

The other night we returned home late and very tired and we were too late for dinner,—for a change,—so we went out and gave a farewell dinner to ourselves: four omelettes and lots of strawberries. Home and to bed early—we were tired and excited and happy all at once. We left Miss Curtis’s car beside the house in an open space behind the sidewalk, having taken everything takable out, and disconnected two spark-plugs.

We were barely horizontal between the sheets when tat-tat-tat—came at the door. Madame, backed by half the pensionnaires and the concierge, were in procession. We were taking such a risk in leaving the car there—such vandalism mauvais gens could commit. It was unthinkable to leave a car there, la la, and, anyway, we would have a procÈs verbal brought against us.

If it had been our car we would have taken the risk, but we didn’t dare with some one’s else. Up we got and dressed as hurriedly as possible. It seemed like a nightmare. Back we put the spark-plugs and the other things and started off.

We went to our place, where the jitney is kept, to ask if they could possibly take another car, and they said yes, there was just room—but that we’d have to take the car out before 7.30 in the morning because the car in back of it was to leave at that time. It didn’t seem as though we could bear it. I suggested, although I knew it was wild (Marje is too mechanical for words), that we leave the brake off and put logs under the wheels and that he just give it a shove at 7.29 the next morning and roll it down the incline into the street. By Jove, he agreed. We slept peacefully that night and called for the car at a quarter of nine the next morning, as we always do.

Marje discovered that her passport had run out, and as it is always a good thing to have about, we chased over to the Embassy after Saturday morning conference and had it renewed. She was off, too, for a sudden trip to the devastated towns, and we realized that we were to be separated for two whole days. You know, it was the first time since Bordeaux. I felt widowed, and she thought it was going to be a crazy party and was off the whole idea, anyway. But she left at three sharp and I went and had a shampoo. The Ambulance men who had brought over the candy from Mrs. Crocker had asked Marje to dine at the Chinese Umbrella that night, and she hadn’t been able to let them know she couldn’t make it; so just before she left I promised to take Mrs. Allen and Mary, with whom I was going to spend the night, to dinner there and ward the men off. The bank was closed, and Marje had had to borrow some money from me. This and the dinner don’t sound related, but they were.

I was pleased that the Allens would go with me—I run over there quite a lot and they always have something extra for me, and are kindness itself, anyway. But I discovered I had just twenty francs to my name. Now the Chinese Umbrella has the best straight American food in town, but it is expensive, as everything is nowadays. I never was so nervous.

I met the Ambulance boys safely enough and painted a colorful picture of Marje’s departure and they were successfully thrilled.

But for dinner—we had orangeade and fried chicken, slipping around our plates with no vegetables (happily the asparagus had been used up—also the potatoes!); cornbread, and finally strawberry shortcake. When pay time came I stepped into the office planning to throw myself on Miss Pabris’s (the proprietor’s) neck if all were not well. She knows me because I got a job through Mrs. Shurtleff for one of my protÉgÉes washing dishes at the Chinese Umbrella. But it was nineteen francs. I pulled out my francs, and largesse with a stray fifty centimes, and stepped proudly out—not knowing where Metro tickets, not to mention a taxi, were to come from.

As we passed the kitchen windows a voice hailed me and there was Mme. Beau, my friend and protÉgÉe, with a dishtowel clutched in one hand, and five francs extended in the other. The poor thing owed it to me, she said. I had utterly forgotten it; part of some money I had lent her when her baby died. Mrs. Shurtleff thought it was better to have her pay part of it back.

Well, there was supply—what cared I for the Metro? We looked for a taxi, but there was none to be had. So I contented myself with buying three tickets as pompously as possible.

On Monday, hard work moving furniture and taking packages with two amusing Ambulance boys, just landed, to help me. One from Montana, the best-looking thing you could hope to see, was equally entertaining on the subject of the “Harvard Sisters” who had come over on the boat with him, and of his Paris experiences.

From tea-time on, I was all ears to hear Marje drive up. Finally she came. About 8.30 it was. Such a lot as she had to tell. Perhaps I shall have something first hand for you some day, but certainly what she said was worth talking about. The party was made up of two carloads; among them, Mr. and Mrs. Will Irwin, and Mrs. Norman Hapgood.

Now I could never drive a car over such roads or take care of the engine or tires if there should be any trouble (Marje had three punctures), so my idea is to go as a journalist and take the same route as this party did. Do you think, Father, you could get me a chance? Think over your newspaper acquaintance.