What do you think happened this morning?  Two wedding-presents arrived.  The first was a very nice fish slice and fork in a case.  It was from dear old Mrs. Jones Beyrick, on whom we really had no claim whatever.  We all think it so kind of her, and such a nice fish-slice.  The other was a beautiful travelling-bag from Uncle Arthur.  Stamped in gold upon it were the letters M.C., I said, ’Oh, what a pity!  They have put the wrong initials.’  That made mamma laugh.  I suppose one soon gets used to it.  Fancy how you would feel if it were the other way about, and you changed your name to mine.  They might call you Selby, but you would continue to feel Crosse.  I didn’t mean that for a joke, but women make jokes without intending it.  The other day the curate drove up in his donkey-cart, and mother said, ‘Oh, what a nice tandem!’ I think that she meant to say ’turn-out’; but papa said it was the neatest thing he had heard for a long time, so mamma is very pleased, but I am sure that she does not know even now why it should be so funny.

What stupid letters I write!  Doesn’t it frighten you when you read them and think that is the person with whom I have to spend my life.  Yet you never seem alarmed about it.  I think it is so brave of you.  That reminds me that I never finished what I wanted to say at the beginning of this letter.  Even supposing that I am pretty (and my complexion sometimes is simply awful), you must bear in mind how quickly the years slip by, and how soon a woman alters.  Why, we shall hardly be married before you will find me full of wrinkles, and without a tooth in my head.  Poor boy, how dreadful for you!  Men seem to change so little and so slowly.  Besides, it does not matter for them, for nobody marries a man because he is pretty.  But you must marry me, Frank, not for what I look but for what I am—­for my inmost, inmost self, so that if I had no body at all, you would love me just the same.  That is how I love you, but I do prefer you with your body on all the same.  I don’t know how I love you, dear.  I only know that I am in a dream when you are near me—­just a beautiful dream.  I live for those moments.—­Ever your own little

Maude.

P.S.—­Papa gave us such a fright, for he came in just now and said that the window-cleaner and all his family were very ill.  This was a joke, because the coachman had told him about my tart.  Wasn’t it horrid of him?

Woking, June 17th.

My own sweetest Maude,—­I do want you to come up to town on Saturday morning.  Then I will see you home to St. Albans in the evening, and we shall have another dear delightful week end.  I think of nothing else, and I count the hours.  Now please to manage it, and don’t let anything stop you.  You know that you can always get your way.  Oh yes, you can, miss!  I know.

We shall meet at the bookstall at Charing Cross railway station at one o’clock, but if anything should go wrong, send me a wire to the Club.  Then we can do some shopping together, and have some fun also.  Tell your mother that we shall be back in plenty of time for dinner.  Make another tart, and I shall eat it.  Things are slack at the office just now, and I could be spared for a few days.