Dear Diary,

It's been simply ages since I've written in you. But you know, ever since that little tiff with Joshua I've just not had the heart. It still hurts, you know. It hurts deeply. It really hurts, that he thinks Eve LaGalliene has more moxie than Helen Hayes. Honestly, now. But then, I should have expected it from someone wearing a red checked velvet suit that looked like a blanket that belonged over the back of an old mare named Aunt Nobby.

But I've good news! I've gotten a job! Isn't it amazing? Gainfully employed, and I'm not even forty yet! Yes, daddums fainted when I told him. Mummy told me not to be so cruel, teasing him like that. But then I showed her my passport and my first pay packet, and I'm afraid she joined daddums on the lino. Her marcel wave was instantly mussed. I was immensely cross with her for it.

I'm jumping ahead of myself, though. I should write how it happened. It all started with my scrapbook. For years I've filled it with clippings of my idol, Mrs. Titus W. Trout. Oh, I needn't tell you how I feel about Mrs. Titus W. Trout, Diary Dear. I'm still dripping with shame over the episode in which my sister Agatha read my duo of poems, A Sonnet Composed Upon A Simple Frock In A Sumptuous Shade Of Lapis Lazuli with Peacock Green Highlights and Jet Beading with a Daring Cape of Ocelot Fur As Worn Exquisitely By Mrs. T.W.T., and my more personal La Belle Trout Sans Merci, to her sewing club. My, how I could have slapped that little nosy parker!

I'd reached the last page of my scrapbook, though, and it occurred to me that I simply couldn't fill another with social columns and reproductions of her toilette from the fashion pages. I simply had to meet this Amazon of Good Taste. After all, didn't she just live uptown, in one of the toniest sections of town? Hadn't I gazed upon the distant windows of her swank penthouse apartment many a time, on my way to the shows? Hadn't I been president of the Mrs. Titus W. Trout Appreciation Society in college (or as we boys called ourselves, 'The Fishwives')? Hadn't I? Yes! I had!

So I steeled myself and put on my fawn-colored suit with the darts in the trousers that bring out the narrowness of my waist and wore my favorite emerald-colored socks and the shoes that made Percy Van Earle give me a jealous look when I passed him in line at the production of A Doll's House starring Nazimova. Poor Percy. Doomed always to be minutes behind on the latest fashions.

Dear diary, you'll never guess what I did. I went straight up to the doorman of the Imperial Sheridan and I said, "Now listen, you, I'm here to see Mrs. Titus W. Trout and I shan't stand any of your . . . BRUCE!" For it was none other than Bruce, the chap I met down on the wharfs during one of my rambles. Yes, the one brandishing the immense flounder. I'd no idea he was a doorman! We chatted a bit and wouldn't you know, when we were done catching up on old times, I was in the building, wink wink. It always helps to have friends in all kinds of places, that's my motto.

Outside the apartment I trembled. I could simply feel the swankitude within. Even the doorbell, a darling little jade button set in the navel of a reproduction of the Venus de Milo executed in gilded ivory, played Frere Jacques in exquisite harmony. Oh, I nearly died. But then the door swung open and out popped a tall man with immense eyebrows wearing a plain gray suit. I instantly surmised he was the butler. "That was faster than a bull on a heifer!" he cried, and before I knew it, he hauled me inside. Wouldn't the Fishwives have been jealous?

Oh, diary. How can I describe what I saw in those first confused moments? Everything inside was simply the dernier cri. Of course, you expect that when the occupant is Mrs. Titus W. Trout. I could tell the butler must be used to such posh accommodations, because he didn't even tiptoe around the tiglon skin carpet in the foyer, like I did. "Come in, come in, man," he kept saying impatiently.

Then the brute had the nerve to open up his master's humidor at the bottom of the black marble staircase and light up. What cheek! I thought to myself. And I admit it, I was quite ready to reach up and slap the fellow with the tips of my white kid gloves. He looked me up and down, his caterpillar brows furrowed. "I say," he said at last, between puffs. "You don't look like the sort of cowpoke I pictured at all. Are you old enough to have been a hero at the Battle of Magenta, pardner?"

I tittered gaily. "Oh, magenta is always a battle, no matter what your age!"

He looked at me suspiciously. "And you're handy with a revolver?"

I cackled. "Oh, with one or two Pink Ladies in me, I'm a pistol!"

He blinked several times and brushed some crumbs from his moustaches. "My friend said me you were ruthless in these situations," he said. "And this situation is worst than most, I don't mind sayin', pardner. Are you up to it?"

Hadn't Celia Cromptforth simply burst into tears when I told her in no uncertain terms that she was simply too fat to carry off a fringed silk cheongsam? And in blue, honestly? "I'm so very, very, very, very, very ruthless," I told him as I fondled a cunning telephone cover stitched out of baby seal skins, though for the life of me I couldn't tell why this impudent bog-trotter was asking me such personal questions. I made a snapping motion with my mouth. "Ruuur!" I snarled, and then I burst out into peals of laughter at my own little joke.

Well, the butler was staring at me as if I'd gone mad. He took a deep breath, and blew out a long stream of air while he cheeks puffed out. Not a very attractive look, if you understand what I mean. "They say you can't tell a cow by her udders," he finally said. And then, diary, he let out a few choice off-color words that brought red to my cheeks--I'm just not used to the rough ways of the Horn and Hardart set, you know--and shook his head and added, "By god, I hope I'm not wrong about this. I'll live to regret it, pardner, but you're hired."

I screamed and jumped in the air and did my famous triple kick before landing on point. "I'm hired!" I squealed. Then I thought for a moment. "To do what?"

The imposing man pulled his fingers from his ears. "We need seconds," he told me, leading me in the direction of his chambers.

"Oh goodie goodie gumdrops!" I exclaimed, even though I'd not had firsts. "I'm famished."

Of course, diary, I was totally wrong about the that big bully of a man. I should have guessed by the suit. When there's a peacock like (and let's sigh as we write the name one last time tonight, shall we?) Mrs. Titus W. Trout in a household, the peahen seems like a drab and boring little thing. Poor Mr. Trout. But I felt sorry for him instantly, and decided that as his personal secretary I'd do everything in my power to make him worthy of such an illustrious wife.

Tomorrow, diary, I'll have to tell you how I packed for our voyage . . . we're off to gay Paree!