It is a joke with Peter and me since the mistake of the telegrams that Mr. Caspian would do some desperate thing to drive the Grayles-Grice, and that made it more easy to play a little trick. I said: "I hear you are asked to correct proofs of a peace tract. Is it hard to do, or could I help when I finish a long letter I write to-morrow? I have seen so many beautiful sights, I shall mix all up in my mind if I see more before I put on paper my thoughts about them. Mr. Caspian can drive well enough the short smooth ways we have mapped out, do you not think?--and he would have his wish." Peter laughed, and so did I. There was not need to explain for him to understand that the plan was part of our joke. Oh, it has been the most heavenly day in the garden! I have sat on a purply red velvet cushion, on a marble seat brought from Italy. Behind the seat is a row of cedars, like a guard of black soldiers. These things suit Long Island as well as they suit Italy, though Peter laughs at them for being here. He laughs in a good-natured yet almost sad way, as if he thought it wrong to make fun of what a dead man did for love of his son. Peter has sat in the garden, too, working hard, and we have not disturbed each other. The Japanese brought us lunch out of doors in a summer house built like a temple in a Roman garden. We had hothouse strawberries and cream of Jersey cows, and when Peter heard me say I would like to see a Jersey, he ordered a Japanese to have one fetched. It came--oh, so small a cow, like a great toy, colour of biscuit, and with a purple tongue which it rolled round a tartine I gave. I have never been more happy. I would have asked Peter at _dejeuner_ if there was a son of Marcel Moncourt, but it seemed not the right time somehow, I can hardly tell why. When I have helped him with the proofs perhaps. (I am to copy his marks on a second set, and I shall try so hard not to have mistakes!) Or to-night, at the Piping Rock Club, where we shall dance together, I hope. Anyway soon. And I will write to you all he says. Your fairy-tale goose girl--or princess--I know not which! PATRICE. IX ANGELE DUBOIS, PATRICIA MOORE'S MAID, TO THE MARQUISE DE MONCOURT (_A translation of her letter into English._) Madame la Marquise has done me the honour of commanding me to write when there was news, good or bad, of the distinguished Monsieur Laurence Moore.