It was a slightly dull, laboured, almost emotionless letter. Always
willing to shirk correspondence, he persuaded himself that the letter
called for no immediate answer. After all, it was not to be expected
that a very young girl whom a man had met only twice in his life could
hold his interest very long, when absent. However, he meant to write
her again; thought of doing so several times during the next twelve
months.
It was a year before another letter came from her. And, reading it, he
was a little surprised to discover how rapidly immaturity can mature
under the shock of circumstances and exotic conditions which tend
toward forced growth.
* * * * *
Mon cher ami: I was silly enough to hope you might write to me. But I suppose you
have far more interesting and important matters to occupy you.
Still, don't you sometimes remember the girl you drove home with in a
sleigh one winter night, ages ago? Don't you sometimes think of the
girl who came creeping upstairs, half dead, to your studio door? And
don't you sometimes wonder what has become of her?
Why is it that a girl is always more loyal to past memories than a
man ever is? Don't answer that it is because she has less to occupy
her than a man has. You have no idea how busy I have been during this
long year in which you have forgotten me.
Among other things I have been busy growing. I am taller by two inches
than when last I saw you. Please be impressed by my five feet eight
inches.
Also, I am happy. The greatest happiness in the world is to have the
opportunity to learn about that same world.
I am happy because I now have that opportunity. During these many
months since I wrote to you I have learned a little French; I read
some, write some, understand pretty well, and speak a little. What a
pleasure, mon ami!
Piano and vocal music, too, occupy me; I love both, and I am told
encouraging things. But best and most delightful of all I am learning
to draw and compose and paint from life in the Académie Julian! Think
of it! It is difficult, it is absorbing, it requires energy,
persistence, self-denial; but it is fascinating, satisfying,
glorious.
Also, it is very trying, mon ami; and I descend into depths of
despair and I presently soar up out of those depressing depths into
intoxicating altitudes of aspiration and self-confidence.
You yourself know how it is, of course. At the criticism today I was
lifted to the seventh heaven. "Pas mal," he said; "continuez,
mademoiselle." Which is wonderful for him. Also my weekly sketch was
chosen from among all the others, and I was given number one. That
means my choice of tabourets on Monday morning, voyez vous? So do
you wonder that I came home with Suzanne, walking on air, and that as
soon as déjeuner was finished I flew in here to write to you about
it?