fectly that you are not a prolific writer of letters. I did, however, anticipate a word from you. My only news comes from box-office statements father forwards to me, usually pleasing as to their totals, but unimaginatively devoid of news of you. Old Mike has been looking after the finances of the troupe; he even does me, his genius son, the service of mailing an occasional newspaper notice. Lately though, I have seen none; and I have not even been able to read your name in print.
I live quietly, work hard. Occasionally, a spree; mild one, of course. The other night at the Kit Kat I was taken unawares. A not unimposing young person sat alone in a corner. He reminded me of you, there in the shadow. I had the temerity to approach him. Thankful I was to learn that he knew me because of one of my silly tunes. He's an equerry, no less, a gentleman of what the British call substance and as unlike you as could be. Oxford, lineage, heraldic thingamabobs on his shirt sleeves and a superior air. But fond of music. If he had that blithe wit that was yours before you went gloomy on me, he'd be perfect. But spare thy tears, Penelope, that was all. I shan't, however, let him cut into my time as you did. Nor shall I flee from him to Montreal and be pursued. Shameless that was, now wasn't it? I still have the treasured cork from that last champagne bottle. Shameless again, am I not, to gloat? But I do. It was worth it.
I pray that you too have learned to savor things. I worried so about you. Your face, usually so inspiringly devilish, was black as night when you saw me off that Saturday. I half wondered, would it be suicide? And then I realized that you have too much sense not to be able to thrust yourself into fire and emerge unscathed. That blend
