"I mean the millionaires who are not too
sensitive."
"Well now, you've got as sensitive a nature as I know,
Miss Bell, and you don't appear to be miserable over
here."
"I!" Elfrida frowned just perceptibly. This little creature
who once corrected the punctuation of her essays, and
gave her bad marks for spelling, was too intolerably
personal. "We won't consider my case, if you please.
Perhaps I'm not a good American."
"Mrs. Bell seems to think she would enjoy the atmosphere
of the past so much in London."
"It's a fatal atmosphere for asthma. Please impress that
upon my people, Miss Kimpsey. There would be no
justification in letting my mother believe she could be
comfortable here. She must come and experience the,
atmosphere of the past, as you are doing, on a visit. As
soon as it can be afforded I hope they will do that."
Since the day of her engagement with the _Illustrated
Age_ Elfrida had been writing long, affectionate, and
prettily worded letters to her mother by every American
mail. They were models of sweet elegance, those letters;
they abounded in dainty bits of description and gay
comment, and they reflected as little of the real life
of the girl who wrote them as it is possible to conceive.
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