never I beg of you, permit anyone to come into your life.  It decidedly makes for clutter and disturbance.  However, as I was saying, she is an excellent woman and has been to the Doctor who says that she has suffered much. (Charge for same $10.) As he wishes to make the same charge for many days the excellent wife will not go to Charleston but remain here, that the charge may lawfully be imposed. (This is where the Christian Scientists are more Scientific for they could make the charge in absentia.)

However and notwithstanding, the Peace Conference still lives.  By wireless I have the news that Lloyd George is still doing politics, that Orlando is Fiuming (give that one to the Englisher), that Colonel House has not told all he knows to Lansing, and that Henry White dined last night with a Duchess who held his hand four minutes while telling him terrible things.

But this is too frivolous altogether for a statesman to be writing to one whose mind is interested only in serious things!  I can see her steady, cold, stern eye of reproach.  “And this to me,” she says, “And ’twere not for thy hoary beard, etc., etc.”

I tell you frankly, tho’ you may not believe it, that I am not entirely in a sober mood.  Yesterday I planted bulbs with a lady who was not bulbous.  The day before I shot pigeons for a lark.  And I am boastful! fair boastful, my Lady!  My secretary and my confidential clerk and my many dark-hued messengers are solemnly impressed with my prowess with gun and spade.  The truth shall not be heard in the land.  I am my own talebearer and my own censor.  I know more about agriculture than the Secretary of Agriculture, and I know more of Labor than the Secretary of the same.  And for this, this glorious bursting into fruitfulness at so advanced an age—­ you and your good man are responsible and to be credited in the Golden Book in which is written, What the Plain People Do for Each Other.

Thanking you for the Bread and Butter, believe me yours for Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

F. K L.

Washington, Saturday, [January 19, 1980]

I am clothed in sackcloth and sitting in ashes.  My head is bowed in humility and I am beating my breast in contrition.  There is no joy in my face and my eyes look downward.  Truly I am full of regret.  Did she not write long, joyous, inquiring, curious, inviting pages to me? and I have not answered!  And now will she ever make her face to shine upon me and give me peace?

I would fly to her—­yes, fly to her in monoplane, biplane, or triplane—­but many things deter me.  A wife, who is busy with the Gods of the Elder Days; a daughter, who is busy with the God of the present day—­to wit, a young man named Philip, surnamed Kauffmann, son of “The Star” six feet two in stockings or otherwise, late of His Majesty’s Navy, Princeton, Football, etc., etc.  The marriage is to be tied in April, God willing, Nancy ordering, Philip consenting, Father paying.