black slaves, carrying alabaster bowls filled with rubies—but alas! life is life and we have to make the best of it. And I do sometimes feel it a little unfair that so much should come upon my shoulders. Women do want romance in their lives, and there is so little of it about. Of course, as you know, I do feel for Mrs. Harrison—her husband is such a dry sort of man and so lacking in sympathy. I do what I can, but that is not the same thing and it is very worrying. I must learn to detach myself. Dr. Trevor says it is very important to cultivate detachment.
When I was shopping this morning I met Mr. Bell, who told me the top maisonnette was let at last—to two young men! I said I hoped they wouldn’t be noisy (though anything would be a relief after that awful woman with her children), and he said they seemed quiet, gentlemanly young fellows. One of them he thinks must be some kind of artist, because they were so interested in the top back room which has a big window with a north light—you know, the one Mr. Harrison always covets so much. Though, of course, it is not nearly so convenient a house as ours in other ways.
I have started on Tom’s stockings. They are going to be very smart. I have worked out an original design for the turnover—a sort of swirly pattern in fawn, brown and black, taken from the coat of the kitchen cat—tabby, you know. Mr. Perry saw it the other day when he called. He thinks I have quite a talent for that kind of thing.
Give my love to Ronnie and Joan. I hope you are taking care of yourself.
Your loving sister, Aggie