Dearest Mother:—

I am so bursting full of the good time that we have had during the past two days that I am going to dash a line off to you—an inconsequential line—even when I know that what you want is a letter full of statistics and answers to questions. (Funny thing, I always think that I am the one who is wonderful about answering everything that you ask!) I will be good to-morrow.

To-night, I am tired and dusty, but miles and miles of white French roads bordered by forests, and meadows, and houses, and towns, and children, and horses, and castles, and flags, are going round in my head.

To-day is a holiday, being the day after Pentecost (Whit-Monday in England), and Marje and I decided to go off for two days somewhere in the country. Miss Curtis had planned to move a family to-day in the Association car,—forgetting that Mrs. Shurtleff had promised us that we could go out in it,—so she handed us over her Ford touring-car, which was perfectly wonderful for us.

Yesterday morning we started off in dazzling sunshine with a clear blue sky overhead. We took the road to Fontainebleau, which is long and straight and bordered all the way—fifty kilometres—with great evergreen trees. We took our hats off and talked, and laughed, and sang, and whistled, and watched the countryside go flying by; the trees and fields were the most luscious green, and everywhere were huge patches of mustard, growing dense and brilliant yellow. Little towns, red-roofed, with a single church spire and a few pointed haystacks, would huddle to themselves far off on the horizon, and always we kept tearing along between the trees, leaving Paris and carking care behind.

We stopped for luncheon under a particularly splendid tree and laid out our store on the thick grass. Sardines, fresh bread, cheese, preserved plums, strawberries, olives stuffed with anchovies, Cailler’s chocolate and orangeade. I never had anything taste so good, and no salt air any nearer than Havre to account for it. You can’t imagine what fun we had. Finally when we were replete, we lay down and looked up into the leaves and listened to the most heavenly birds.

We reached Fontainebleau at about two. The “New York Herald” had said something about its being American day at F. that Sunday, but we weren’t prepared for such an exhibition of American flags as greeted us on all the houses and shops, and on the palais itself. We knew, however, that all this demonstration meant that the hotels were full, so we looked to getting a room for the night before seeing anything. Not a thing to be had. Thank fortune we were in a car and could go on to the next town.

There was a special invitation for all Americans to visit the Fontainebleau golf course, so we made tracks out in that direction, as the palais and grounds were overrun with permissionnaires and the usual holiday crowds.

Arrived at the gates of the golf club we were ashamed at first to go in. We were tired and dusty and blown to pieces, and the paths and hedges looked too neat and dressy for words. But we did hop out and walk up to a gentle-looking gray-bearded Frenchman with a black straw hat, and asked if we could go in. He said he was enchantÉ to have Americans come to the club, and took us himself up to the first tee. I looked wistfully at the little piles of sand and thought of the many hours spent under an electric light between four walls of fish-net on Seventy-second Street, and longed for my driver.

We wandered up to some fir trees in the rough about halfway to the first green and flopped down on the ground. We were both pretty tired and didn’t know where we could spend the night, or what, in fact, the next move would be. Marje said that she couldn’t go another step until she had a nap, and as we didn’t know when we should see a bed, we crawled under the low branches of the fir tree, spread our coats over us, and went to sleep.

It was twenty minutes of four when we woke up. We jumped out of the bushes and so startled a man who was driving off that he sliced his shot and the ball went whizzing between our heads. It was surprising to see men caddies in battered French uniforms—probably rÉformÉs for tuberculosis—and also young husky girl caddies toting around armfuls of clubs. These were the only reminders of war, for on the veranda were Americans and French people in white tennis shoes and blazers playing bridge. You can’t imagine the thrill of seeing good-looking people wearing clothes and jewelry, sitting around and calling out “No trumps”—after what this winter has been in Paris.

My, but we felt good after our nap! We met our friend with the black hat and he took us inside the clubhouse. He showed us most especially the mural decorations—scenes in Fontainebleau—which were from his brush. One of the silver loving-cups in the glass case had “Compliments of Charles Crocker” on it, and Marje discovered that he is a relation of hers in Fitchburg.

We became very chummy with graybeard, and I mentioned in passing that we couldn’t find a place to stay. He gave us his card—M. Paul Tavernier—and said that he knew an old couple who had a lovely house which they rented furnished for the summer, beginning July 1st. Just now they rented rooms overnight and would serve the petit dÉjeuner. It was nice of him to recommend us, not knowing us at all, but he must have known we were nice, we looked so innocent and unattractive. It seems funny that over here when I’m traveling I spend my time trying to look utterly unattractive and I meet with dazzling success; but such a difference as it makes when choosing hats!

I have had a gnawing eagerness to see Moret. I believe it’s where the Barnards used to live; and Professor Churchill, head of the art department in Northampton, knew George Gray Barnard there, and used to mention the town and its environs in his lectures. The road leads through the forest, and I can imagine nothing lovelier than the acres of velvet green grass and giant green trees. You feel so tiny in between.

We hurried back to Fontainebleau and found 25 rue de l’Arbre Sec to be a plain-looking house on a narrow, cobbled side street. Our ring was answered by a nice-looking little woman, who became cordial when we mentioned M. Tavernier’s name. She led us through the house, which was dark and finely furnished, and upstairs to a bedroom done in pink, with white furniture. The windows looked out on a court and a heavenly garden—undreamed of from the street.

Mme. Moreau, our hostess,—I call her hostess for she seemed just like it,—made up the bed in fresh linen, hemstitched and monogrammed, put fresh towels in our private adjoining bathroom, and puttered around us adorably. She said that she didn’t serve any meals except breakfast, but would we like eggs with our coffee? We jumped for joy. I haven’t had an egg for breakfast since I was in Pau.

We sauntered out for dinner at 7.30. We went to the France et Angleterre, the chic-est hotel there, and ate on the Terrace with all the swells. A few of the very few members of Paris haute sociÉtÉ that I know were there, and bowed quite informally over their pearls. I was becomingly gowned in my old brown felt hat, the coat of my winter suit, the little blue serge model, and a pair of men’s shoes that I bought from the Vestiaire. No matter. We watched the officers and their lady friends and the Rolls Royces and Renaults and negotiated our asparagus with perfect nonchalance.

To bed in that wonderful room. The armoire was all lined with satin, and there was a plain gray velvet carpet, and canework let into the head and foot of the bed, and the bed was set in an alcove with a canopy. Oh, I tell you it was great; twelve francs, for the two of us.

And when we woke there were the eggs—and pain grillÉ. It was about the time when certain people that I know are usually on the way over to the Vestiaire, and we hugged ourselves and each other, I can tell you, to think that we were off in Fontainebleau in an elegant boudoir with trees whispering outside the window and boiled eggs before us.

We had luncheon in the forest. We decided to leave the palais and grounds until another day when there wouldn’t be such a crowd and the sun would not be so hot.

Moret is the cutest place ever. A cobbled main street, with little stores and tiny streets leading off of it, and old stone towers over the city gates. It is on the Loire, and we crossed the bridge and sat down in the long grass at the water’s edge and looked back at the town through the trees; cunning little houses with window-boxes leaning out over the river, children and ducks playing in the water; and topping the town, the tower of the lovely old twelfth-century church.

We went up to the church, and really it is the most romantic, irregular, moth-eaten, ancient of days that you can imagine. The inside is lovely in outline and general construction, but here and there it has been whitewashed and generally renovated in a deplorable way. Some one evidently died—as Marje remarked—and left to the church three brilliant cut-glass chandeliers, which give the most bizarre effect, hanging in the main aisle. We wandered around all alone—not a person in the place, not even a priest or choir-boy was to be seen.

We started home and went to Barbizon for tea. That is another cute place. Lovely villas, and tablets outside saying what artist lived there. There are several fine hotels. One was really very snappy, and we had tea there outdoors under a yellow-and-white striped awning. The country all about is lovely and just shrieks Millet. If it hadn’t turned cold suddenly I should have wanted to get out and sketch and let Marje work on the car awhile. She always can find something to do, and if there’s nothing in sight for me to draw, I always can draw her doing it.

I have just been playing over the easier of the Symphonic Études—if there are such—and here I am writing away and it’s bedtime. Think of how wonderful it was to have that car, and find that lovely place to stay, and to have each other to go with, and then to come home to our salon and my darling piano!

I am waiting impatiently for the letter telling me what I’m to do in Switzerland. I am afraid you are quite unnecessarily worried about me. There was a time when I was pretty ill and tired, but I am much better now. Mrs. Shurtleff has given both Marje and me every other Monday off. I haven’t written to you yet about our salon, but it makes all the difference in the world to our health and happiness.

Good-bye for now. I will write you a sensible letter soon, full of information and untouched by frivolity. I understand that one boat has skipped. I know I didn’t get any mail. Heaven know when you’ll get this.

Much love, Mother dear, from