I’m sitting at a window overlooking a fiord, typing this on a new portable I bought for the trip. In here it’s pleasant. It’s late in the season for outdoors in Norway, but if you run hard to keep your blood going you can stand it.
I got a letter yesterday which read as follows:
Dear Archie:
The chickens came from Mr. Haskins Friday, four of them, and they were satisfactory. Marko came to dinner. He misses Fritz, he says. I have given Fritz a raise.
Mr. Cramer dropped in for a talk one day last week. He made some rather pointed comments about you, but on the whole behaved himself tolerably.
I am writing this longhand because I do not like the way the man sent by the agency types.
Vanda peetersiana has a raceme 29 in. long. Its longest last year was 22 in. We have found three snails in the warm room. I thought of mailing them to Mr. Hewitt but didn’t.
Mr. Leeds hanged himself in the jail at White Plains yesterday and was dead when discovered. That of course cancels your promise to Mr. Archer to return in time for the trial, but I trust you will not use it as an excuse to prolong your stay.
We have received your letters and they were most welcome. I have received an offer of $315 for the furniture in your office but am insisting on $350. Fritz says he has written you. I am beginning to feel more like myself.
My best regards,
I let Lily read it. “Darn him anyhow,” she said. “No message, not a mention of me. My Pete! Huh. Fickle Fatty.”
“You’d be the last,” I told her, “that he’d ever send a message to. You’re the only woman that ever got close enough to him, at least in my time, to make him smell of perfume.”