We are flying at sixty miles an hour, nearer and nearer to you. After days of silence I found your two wonderful letters waiting for me when we got back to civilization. The clerk at the hotel said Aunt had given orders to hold them. I wonder if she did this on purpose, for surely they could have been sent in to us by a guide. The Prince was with me when I made my inquiries; I saw him trying to suppress a smile. But he does not like my ignoring him and he is getting a bit ugly. When I broke the news of Peppi’s marriage to Mona Lisa, both he and Aunt seemed disturbed, and Boris acted quite upset, and as if he had lost an ally. I left them talking it over. He certainly has Aunt hypnotized. My twin wagered he would try for her hand next. Checkers and Sybil spend their time on the train shamelessly making love and telling me I must begin to inform Aunt about the wedding. I screwed up my courage an hour ago and began, “The Rector says he’ll perform the ceremony, Aunt--” but she broke in with “Whose ceremony?” “Mine and A. D.’s,” I continued, trying to look determined. “Humph!” she said, and closed her eyes, pretending to go to sleep. When she awoke, I tackled her again. “I’ve engaged the church, Aunt,” quoth I. “What for?” said she. “For the thirty-first,” I replied blandly while Checkers snickered. “What are you talking about?” and by now Aunt was truly cross. “The same thing,” I sighed, “our wedding.” She muttered something about that ceremony never coming off and departed for the observation car to join the Prince. But she looked worried. Checkers egged me on to begin again when she re-appeared. “As I was saying, Aunt, when we were interrupted, everything’s all ready, you know. Checkers will give me away. Sybil is to be maid of honor--she’s to wear white lace and carry Lady Battersea roses--and the decorations are to be wine-red azaleas--” “Not another word!” she snapped, and I drew a long breath and stopped for a few minutes to get ready for the next attack. After a pause, “The thirty-first’s the day, you know,” I observed casually. Aunt blinked. “The wedding day,” piped up my brother. “Our Polly’s!” “How about Boris?” she inquired. “You are a little fool not to become a princess.” I ignored this remark and continued, “Ricci is going to sing and St. Laurent will be at the organ and--” I found I was addressing an empty chair, for my relative had stalked off once more. The next opportunity another bolt was shot at her. “My wedding dress is ordered, and it’s a beauty! The veil will be four yards--” “Porter!” shouted Aunt, and as that coffee-colored individual stopped short, she started him on a long explanation of the route ahead of us, while I withdrew, baffled and brooding, to re-read your letters. How am I going to bring my guardian around finally?