engaged. Oh, with _Aunt Mary Kedison, of course_! And in
Jack's car, my poor old Horror of accursed memory being burnt long
before. Jack was "Brown" then, and my "Lightning Conductor" as he still
is and ever shall be; though just at present when we motor I have to sit
behind the scenes and make the lightning work. His wounds have left him
stiff in the left arm and leg, but the doctors say he will really and
truly be himself again in a few months: six or seven at most. I wish you
the same luck with Monty, or better if possible.

By the way, we shall meet Aunt Mary again soon. She has been to the
Bahamas for the winter, with a family of retired missionaries (I think
they retired after one of them was eaten), but has come back to a house
she owns in New England. We shall have to stop and say, "How do you do
and good-bye" on our way somewhere else. I confess I dread it, for
though Aunt Mary is as good as gold, or, anyhow, silver, she's one of
those creatures who begin: "You know I'm a very _truthful_ woman,"
whenever they have a disagreeable personal remark to make. You've met
the type! They're mostly women; and they dissolve in tears and think you
cruel as dozens of graves if you retort in kind. I expect Aunt Mary's
(almost) first words to Jack will be, "Well, Mr. Winston--(oh, _Captain_
is it, Molly?)--I'm glad to see that my niece and you continue to get
along fairly. You're aware I never _could_ approve on principle of these
international matches, or mismatches; American women ought to marry men
of their own country, if they must marry at all." (She's never forgiven
me for snubbing her pet, Jimmy Payne, now a terribly respectable husband
and _Poopa_.) "Still, there _can_ be exceptions, and evidently you don't
bully my niece, as it's established that _most_ Englishmen do their
wives, for she's looking well considering her age. Let me see, she was
born in the year----" But at this point I shall interrupt Aunt Mary by a
bright remark about the weather, or a _bludgeon_ if the weather won't
work!

I thank our lucky stars (Jack and I have a skyful) that we're going to
do another trip before we start for New England. Of course I want my
ewe-lion (I've named him that behind his back since he turned warrior)
to see all of my dear country he can before we have to sail again; but
it's too bad such a lovely part as New England should be infested by
aunts, isn't it? It's called the "Ideal Tour," I believe--through the
White Mountai