It was a long letter, too long to be read until she was at
leisure, and written in a straggling hand that made reading
difficult. She was mildly surprised that Polly should have written
her, for she had been back in America a year or more now, and this
was her first letter. Polly had a warm heart and did not forget
her friends, but she was not a good correspondent.
The need of getting her things ready at once drove the letter from
Claire's mind. She was in the train on her way to Southampton
before she remembered its existence.
It was dated from New York.
MY DEAR OLD CLAIRE,--Is this really my first letter to you? Isn't
that awful! Gee! A lot's happened since I saw you last. I must
tell you first about my hit. Some hit! Claire, old girl, I own New
York. I daren't tell you what my salary is. You'd faint.
I'm doing barefoot dancing. You know the sort of stuff. I started
it in vaudeville, and went so big that my agent shifted me to the
restaurants, and they have to call out the police reserves to
handle the crowd. You can't get a table at Reigelheimer's, which
is my pitch, unless you tip the head waiter a small fortune and
promise to mail him your clothes when you get home. I dance during
supper with nothing on my feet and not much anywhere else, and it
takes three vans to carry my salary to the bank.
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