How Peggy, who has been away from home and seen and done things, can
stand it there now as it is, is a continual wonder to me.
Peggy is a dear little thing. Peter has always been awfully fond of
her, but she doesn't seem to have an idea in her head beyond her
clothes and Harry Goward, though she'll HAVE to have something more to
her if she's going to keep HIM. The moment I saw that boy, of course I
knew that he had the artistic temperament; I've seen so much of it.
He's the kind that's always awfully gloomy until eleven o'clock in the
morning, and has to make love intensely to somebody every evening. What
it must have been to that boy, after indulging in a romantic dream with
poor little earnest, downright Peggy, to wake up and find the
engagement taken seriously not only by her, but by all her
relatives--find himself being welcomed into the family, introduced to
them all as a future member--what it must have been to him I can't
imagine! Peggy has no more temperament than a cow--the combination of
Maria and Tom, and Grandmother Evarts, and Billy with his face washed
clean, and Alice with three enormous bows on her hair, all waiting to
welcome him, standing by the pictorial lamp on the brown worsted mat on
the centre-table, made me fairly howl when I sat at home and thought of
it--and that was before I'd SEEN Harry.
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