d the smell
of Dinky-Dunk's brand new gloves as he lifted my chin and kissed me in
that slow, tender, tragic, end-of-the-world way big and bashful men
sometimes have with women. It's all a jumble of smells.

Then Dinky-Dunk got the wire saying he might lose his chance on the
Stuart Ranch, if he didn't close before the Calgary interests got hold
of it. And Dinky-Dunk wanted that ranch. So we talked it over and in
five minutes had given up the idea of going down to Aiken and were
telephoning for the stateroom on the Montreal Express. I had just four
hours for shopping, scurrying about after cook-books and golf-boots and
table-linen and a chafing dish, and a lot of other absurd things I
thought we'd need on the ranch. And then off we flew for the West,
before poor, extravagant, ecstatic Dinky-Dunk's thirty-six wedding
orchids' from Thorley's had faded and before I'd a chance to show Fanny
my nighties!

Am I crazy? Is it all wrong? Do I love my Dinky-Dunk? _Do_ I? The Good
Lord only knows, Matilda Anne! O God, O God, if it _should_ turn out
that I don't, that I can't? But I'm going to! I know I'm going to! And
there's one other thing that I know, and when I remember it, it sends a
comfy warm wave through all my body: Dinky-Dunk loves me. He's as mad as
a hatter about me. He deserves to be loved back. And I'm going to love
him back. That is a vow I herewith duly register. _I'm going to love my
Dinky-Dunk._ But, oh, isn't it wonderful to wake love in a man, in a
strong man? To be able to sweep him off, that way, on a tidal wave that
leaves him rather white and shaky in the voice and trembly in the
fingers, and seems to light a little luminous fire at the back of his
eyeballs so that you can see the pupils glow, the same as an animal's
when your motor head-lights hit them! It's like taking a little match
and starting a prairie-fire and watching the flames creep and spread
until the heavens are roaring! I wonder if I'm selfish? I wonder? But I
can't answer that now, for it's supper time, and your Tabby has the grub
to rustle!

_Saturday the Twenty-first_

I'm alone in the shack to-night, and I'm determined not to think about
my troubles. So I'm going to write you a ream, Matilda Anne, whether you
like it or not. And I must begin by telling you about the shack itself,
and how I got here. All the way out from Montreal Dinky-Dunk, in his
kindly way, kept doing his best to key me down and make me not expect
too much. B