Dearest Agatha,
You know it has long been my fondest wish to see that blot-on-the-landscape nephew of ours settle into some semblance of domestic bliss, and in your own way, I believe you have hoped for the same. For years, aided and abetted by Jeeves, he dodged even the whiff of a romantic entanglement got up by either of us.
But I always had my money on Bobbie — that one-girl beauty chorus — as the right match for him, and I have rarely been so glad to be proved right. Tom will tell you I am always right, of course, but in this case even I feel something closer to deep contentment than mere vindication.
I told Jeeves to bring me back photographs I could keep on my desk, and he has not disappointed. Even Jeeves, I might add, appears to have made his peace with Roberta as mistress of the Wooster household.
I am sending you copies for your album.
Your loving sister,
Dahlia
My Dear Dahlia,
You were always too kind to that airhead Bertie — and to that reckless Bobbie Wickham besides. Why, I cannot imagine. Is beauty everything? She is one for the pictures, I think, always racing something or other. Tell me, is she going to improve Bertie in any way, who as you know is in need of improvement in practically every department?
Has the boy ever seen an early morning? He is forever out with those good-for-nothing lads at the Drones, pinching Constable Oates’s helmet — and not once, but twice! Then he is off to the Riviera, or the Amalfi coast, or the Americas. Discipline, I always say. No one has ever needed it more.
Had he chosen the very admirable Honoria Glossop, or the highly intellectual Florence Craye, or any of the other equally fine ladies, I might have changed my opinion of him. Sadly, however, he has chosen Roberta. Well, he is her problem now.
The photographs are fine, I will give you that — those two look well together. I will file them away in the family album. Now, how is that card tournament of yours coming along? I intend to win it all.
Your loving sister,
Agatha
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