I don't suppose Pat had slept; but luckily faces are being worn small and white this year, with eyes too big for them, and she looked as young next morning as if she had spent her night in paradise instead of _far_ below that level. I felt horribly worried, because the plot wasn't working a bit, and I couldn't eat my breakfast (if this keeps up, I shall get so thin my veils won't fit!), but all the same I _couldn't_ help enjoying the day. It was so nice, in spite of all, proving to Jack that you can _never_ exhaust the beauties of my country: there are always more to come! He had prophesied that after the Water Gap the rest of the trip would be an anticlimax. But he needn't have feared. The first stage of the way beyond gave us a new sensation. It seems the road is known to be one of the most exquisite in America; and indeed it was as well worth coming from Europe for as the Water Gap itself--worth even the risk of being torpedoed. Our procession seemed to pass through a painted and tapestried corridor, so pink and purple and azure and gold were the rocks that lined our way, with millions of delicate wild flowers. And oh, the retrospect view! It was wonderful, too, crossing by ferry, and looking back. Albertson's ferry we chose, and one car at a time rolled sedately on to a flatboat to be rowed to the opposite side of the river by a very young Charon in a very large straw hat. We had groves to drive through, and little leafy roads like Surrey lanes, that looked innocent enough to lead nowhere, but somehow we managed to skip from valley to valley with a sensation almost of flying; and if the roads were like Surrey, the colour of the earth--when a bare place showed in a meadow--was rose-pink as Devon. Goldenrod, not yet in bloom, might have been planted purposely, in borders, mixed with sumach. The red barns were bigger and "homier" than those of the day before, and the little stone farmhouses most inviting. It was quite a shock to find ourselves suddenly in "Vienna." (What if Jack should be interned!) But it was a miniature Vienna. Next came Hackettstown, a charming place, and then the famous Schooley's Mountain, which dropped us down, down into German Valley. At Morristown we lunched, and afterward went to Washington's Headquarters, an adorable old yellow house almost as fine as Kidd's Pines. So by Persippany and Pine Brook to Jersey City and into New York: beauty and interest of one sort or other all the way, but our great object not accomplished. Everything worse than ever, and Pat and Larry each obstinately determined to be sacrificed. Oh, that Caspian man! I wish I had the formula for becoming a _werewolf_, and I would devour him! Your every loving, MOLLY. XVI ANGELE, PATRICIAS MAID, TO THE MARQUISE DE MONCOURT (_Translation_) _Kidd's Pines._