But Ena and Mubs and Rags and I can wallow as long as we like and have
gorgeous breakfasts in our rooms. Mubs thinks Mrs. R. is a fool,
because she can hardly understand what a woman wants with a vote, but
I think she's a dear. She sends cartloads of flowers to hospitals,
and if you speak of a charity she hauls handfuls of dollar bills out
of an immense gold chain bag she always carries on her arm because
Petro gave it to her for a birthday present, and it, and Ena's one, a
size smaller, has the fat air of containing all her luggage ready to
start off from Saturday to Monday at a moment's notice. I suppose it's
money that looks so plump.
Now _do_ you think Rags ought to resist the daughter of such a house
when church mice have long ago cut our acquaintance? Of course, Rags
is lucky at bridge (he gave me a lovely dress on board ship), but he
can't live on it regularly. So far it's a toss up. I'll let you know
how things go.
Mubs is writing an article for an American newspaper which has offered
her fifty pounds. This is the first fun she's ever got out of being a
countess--and now I shouldn't wonder if she'd be a dowager soon! As
for me, I'm trying to flirt with Petro.
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