Do you know that over there in the Ridge of blue and gold you are the most splendidly endowed of all the daughters of the gods? Why? Because my memory tells me that you have (to my memorial eye and mind) all that can be conferred of loveliness; and, according to your boast, you have a new and delectable way of fixing tomatoes. Now, I adore tomatters. I could die for ’em, I nearly have several times. You can’t imagine how interested I was in your tomato garden. In your tomato garden. Say—I believe you promulgated some nonsense in your letter about whether I stood under Fifth Avenue girls’ windows about midnight and sent up flowers and candies. Why, lemme tell you, Miss Carrie, I’ve seen ’em and talked to ’em, and had tea with ’em—and lemme tell you—I’d rather set (not sit) across a little table with you and have a tomatter between us with ice and—— Say—I don’t agree with you about the nuts. Why, I never saw a tomatter in my life stuffed with nuts. Air they good? The ice sounds all right. And lemme tell you—I think you’re wrong about the Mayonnaise dressing. I have such a respect for tomatters that I must challenge you. French dressing, with green peppers—so say I. And yet it is no more than Cosmic and Natural Justice that you should be woozy about the proper way to fix tomatters. Perfection has never been attained by mortals. (Now my memory is at work again.) If you could be as I remember you and an expert in tomatters, too, why there would be double perfection, and that’s an unknown quantity in mathematics. I prefer to retain my ideal; therefore the deduction is: your tomatters are off their trolley. Still, I’d like to try one. That’s constancy and faith. Will you keep one on ice for me, on the chance that good Fortune may allow me to drift down that way?