Dear Frances:—

I am so glad you are coming, but wish you were coming by train instead of with the Chapmans in their car. For I can’t get you here a minute too soon, nor have you too much to myself. The Chapmans say they want to see a hike camp, and how can I excuse myself from going too?

Everything has gone wrong, quite wrong. I thought I could keep the lieutenant off, but I did not realize what a soldier is. Last night he had to have his answer, and I was telling him as gently as I could, when the stupid servant opened the front door to the captain and let him make his own way into the parlor, where he stood before I had heard a sound. If he didn’t see what was going on, he was blind.

And then I lost my head over the sudden notion that here was my chance to get rid of him too. For the man frightens me, Frances; I never met one who was so steady and so determined and so strong. Maybe I blundered; I don’t know. But I can’t have him getting to know me any better; I want never to see him again. So I said (I know I stiffened horribly as I said it, the thing was so uncalled for and so un-nice) “The lieutenant and I were just discussing army life, captain, and how little it has for a woman. For a man ought to be able to offer the best that there is.” It hurt him; it hurt his opinion of me. He went away almost without a word. I never was so ashamed; never before have I felt like a butcher. But if I meant it why shouldn’t I say it? Let him hate me, if only he lets me alone.

They march out Monday, and as I hear the drums go by on the main road I shall be glad. But I do so want to see you. Hurry the Chapmans all you can.

Longingly,