Your blissful sister,
Jo.
Wednesday.
Dear Meg,
A bleaker mood prevails today for I discover I have a rival. One of the Professor’s other students of German, who is even more stupid at the language than I am, a pretty, lively young thing called Lucy, the daughter of a rich city merchant and stuffed to bursting with little airs and graces, whom I espied in the hallway from the second landing, standing with a confiding air and her hand upon my Herr B.’s arm, blushing and dimpling and tossing her curls, and begging him, oh, so coquettishly, to explain, “Exactly where do your umlauts come from, Herr B., and why is there not one upon the word itself?” “Out, you little hussy, and go to plague the homely stout old Professor with your foolish questions,” was my impulse to shout down the staircase at her. But I resisted, of course, and so must stand helpless and watch while Herr B., gallant as ever, smiled indulgently upon her and even seemed to enjoy her prattle just a little. But I was gratified to notice that he did not tell her that she “vould do zehr vell” with the language, and, while it is true that all young men do like to be flirted with, I am sure that my Herr B. is far too sensible to fall too far for such silly girlish wiles. He is to be a professor of philosophy, for mercy’s sake!
Yours, sobered but undaunted,
Jo.
Friday.
Dear Meg,
I have formed a plan. On New-Year’s eve, there is to be a masquerade at the house, and quite the gala it is to be, I am told. I shall contrive a costume—don’t know what, haven’t any fine clothes, but I’ll think of something, as we used in the theatricals at home—and disguise my voice, and when I have distracted myself by acting another character I know I’ll be rid of this bashfulness which so hampers me when I’m in my Herr B.’s presence. I’ll dance with him, and talk to him, and amuse him with nonsense, and fascinate him with conversation such as silly little Lucy never dreamed, and—once we are unmasked and he sees how jolly the stiff and awkward Mees Marsch can be when she unbends—he will fall in love with me! He must!
I kiss this letter as I send it to you, and let us hope the next one will bring the happiest tidings of all from your own,
Jo.
It was a glaring afternoon in the baked dusty heat of late summer, and for three weeks Lulu had been working in a pub. The people in the local veterinarians’ offices she had applied to had been polite and friendly, and pleased to meet a fellow animal lover; they had taken her name and telephone number and promised to contact her should a post become available; however, they had all explained, the turnover of jobs in their pleasant and leisurely line of work was exceptionally slow unless someone were either pregnant or approaching retirement, which no one seemed to be. If Lulu needed work, they all recommended, she should not wait for a call from them but find something else instead to fill in.