I broke it to you with the top of my letter that we're in a perfectly gorgeous hotel. Jack and I have a suite which would be good enough for a king and queen. He was determined that we'd "do ourselves well," as we are to stay several days, running out to Plymouth and so on, and running back. We've been here now only one night and a morning, but already our sitting-room looks, in some ways, as if we'd taken it for life. Flowers, of course! Jack always buys me flowers; and books--books--books: Longfellow, Hawthorne, Whittier, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and some glorified guides in volume form. I said, "Are we to carry all these in the car? We shall be boiling over with books, swamped with books, buried under books as Tarpeia was under the shields and bracelets!" But Jack had made his plans. They will be sent home to Awepesha by the hotel people when we go, and we are to have the comfort of them here. As nobody else will have any books, they'll offer Pat an excuse to drop in on us--Peter, too. Jack ought to give "penny readings," I think! I haven't, by the way, got any satisfaction out of Peter. We are partners in the Caspian-Shuster plot, but _his_ plot he keeps to himself. I wonder what, from all I have told you, Mercedes, _you_ think of him? In spite of everything, Jack and I believe that he's _all right_, and vaguely we look for a Great Surprise, though of what nature we cannot say. I wish it would come before we get into Aunt Mary-land. I begin to need something to brace me up! Love! Ever your MOLLY. XXII MOLLY WINSTON TO MERCEDES LANE _Still Boston._ DEAR ONE: I was wishing for a surprise, and it came. But it hasn't explained anything. It has only thickened the plot--thickened it like porridge made of Boston beans. I didn't mean to inflict another letter upon you quite so soon; but I'm so full of the surprise--and "beans," too--heavenly Boston ones, very brown, and crisp on top--that I can't wait.