![Transcription Center logo](/themes/custom/tc_theme/assets/image/logo.png)
This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.
218 March 14th 1933 [[strikethrough]] Sunday, August 5, 1928 [[/strikethrough]] Strange that I wrote that poem two months ago, and that my friendship with JMcA has continued. That lunch was definitely a thing apart, quite outside the rest of the relationship. The latter has been natural and extremely pleasant. Teas at "the Treasure Chest" have, in fact, been the nicest times in the weeks. The lady makes it seem important, from opening the door to suggesting we have a lamp lit in the dining room. I can't explain my feeling for him. It is certainly very far from love. In fact, falling in love with him is a ridiculous impossibility, but it is an intimate, very affectionate feeling. We talk and laugh, and there is pleasure in pouring tea (no sugar, and cream) and putting a dab of the sweet wild strawberry jam beside the amorettas. And the rides to New York are fun. More than that, I miss not seeing him, and I feel particularly lovely now with no definite tea to look forward to. The "minus" after the A, when Pike got a "good" distressed me frightfully. It's funny. He has a grand Herzian sense of humor, intelligence, and culture, but poise and idle flattery and dancing are lacking. Why do I like him at all? Is it because it's exciting here, or is it because there is something very appealing about him? Or is it a challenge? And, how much does he like me? 219 Monday, August 6, 1928 To JMcA Some will perhaps scorn my story And say that love is never sudden and swift Like a slash of lightning, Or a wind-driven cloud. They will say it grows and endures, The little bud blooming - Ah! but then what? The full red petals fall. So why is not my emotion love, Which came only for a little while And bloomed like a delicate jasmine- Just then? We'd seen each other once a week For several months, and soon I grew to know the color of his eyes, The way a smile could narrow them, The way his agitated fingers always played with pencils or with books. I knew the sort of thing that made hi smile and laugh, Although I never said those things - or let him know I know, For we were sort of distant, formal friends January 26th 1933 Wednesday