And to steal one's own
letter is not really stealing. Of course if he was visiting any one and
pretending to be a real person, I had no chance in the world. But if he
was stopping at a hotel I thought I could manage. The man in the book
had had an apartment, with a Japanese servant, who went away and drew
plans of American Forts in the kitchen and left the woman alone with the
desk containing the Letter. But I daresay that was unusualy lucky and
not the sort of thing to look forward to.
With me, to think is to act. Hannah was out, it being Xmas and her
brother-in-law having a wake, being dead, so I was free to do anything I
wanted to.
First I called the Club and got Carter Brooks on the telephone.
"Carter," I said, "I--I am writing a letter. Where is--where does H.
stay?"
"Who?"
"H.--Mr. Grosvenor."
"Why, bless your ardent little Heart! Writing, are you? It's sublime,
Bab!"
"Where does he live?"
"And is it all alone you are, on Xmas Night!" he burbled. (This is a
word from Alice in WonderLand, and although not in the dictionery, is
quite expressive.)
"Yes," I replied, bitterly. "I am old enough to be married off without
my consent, but I am not old enough for a real Ball. It makes me sick."
"I can smuggle him here, if you want to talk to him."
"Smuggle!" I said, with scorn. "There is no need to smuggle him. The
Familey is crazy about him. They are flinging me at him."
"Well, that's nice," he said. "Who'd have thought it! Shall I bring him
to the 'phone?"
"I don't want to talk to him.
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