In other words, my dear Beverley, it is true that I have more than once postponed the date of our marriage. I have never said why; perhaps I myself have never known just why. But at least do not expect me to shorten the engagement in order that I may secure some share of your literary honours. As a little girl I always despised queens who were crowned with their husbands. It seemed to me that the queen was crowned with what was left over and was merely allowed to sit on the corner of the throne as the poor connection. P.S.--Still, I _would_ like to go to England. I mean, of course, I wish _we_ could go on our wedding journey! If I got ready, could I rely upon _you_? I have always wished to visit England without being debarred from its social life. Seriously, the invitation of the Blackthornes looks to me like an opportunity and an advantage not to be thrown away. Wisdom never wastes, and you say I am wise! It is true that I have not been feeling very well. And it is true that I have consulted Dr. Marigold and am now a patient of his. That dreaded door has closed behind me! I have been alone with him! The diagnosis at least was delightful. He made it appear like opening a golden door upon a charming landscape. I had but to step outdoors and look around with a pleasant smile and say: "Why, Health, my former friend, how do you do! Why did you go back on me?" He tells me my trouble is a mild form of auto-intoxication. I said to him that _must_ be the disease; namely, that it was _mild_. Never in my life had I had anything that was mild! Disease from my birth up had attacked me only in its most virulent form: so had health. I had always enjoyed--and suffered from--virulent health. I am going to take the Bulgar bacillus. Why do _you_ dislike Dr. Marigold? Popular physicians are naturally hated by unpopular physicians. But how does _he_ run against or run over you? Which of your books was it the condescending Englishman liked? Suppose you send me a copy. Why not send me a copy of each of your books? Those you gave me as they came out seem to have disappeared. The wild rose is now going to pour down her graceful stalk a tubeful of the Balkan bacillus. More trouble with the Balkans! TILLY (auto-intoxicated, not otherwise intoxicated! Thank Heaven at least for _that_!). BEVERLEY SANDS TO BEN DOOLITTLE _June 3._ DEAR BEN: A bolt of divine lightning has struck me out of the smiling blue, a benign fulmination from an Olympian. To descend the long slope of Olympus to you. A few days ago I received a letter from the great English novelist, Edward Blackthorne, in praise of my work. The great Edward reads my books and the great Ben Doolittle doesn't--score heavily for the aforesaid illustrious Eddy.