_February 11, 1843._
Does not this snow-storm take it upon itself to say No, without your
interference in the matter? This should cure you of your bad habit of
refusing. The devil is wicked enough, without your efforts to rival him.
I was very ill last night, suffering from fever and sharp, shooting
pains. I am somewhat better to-night. It seems to me that in your last
note you are trying to find an excuse to quarrel about our walk. What
was wrong about it, unless you caught cold? I made you walk so fast that
I have little anxiety on that score.
There was in your appearance an air of health and vigour that was
delightful to see. Besides that, you are losing gradually your habitual
restraint with me. These walks are an advantage to you in every way, not
to mention the variety of archæological knowledge that you acquire
without taking any trouble at all. Already you are past-mistress on the
subject of vases and statues.
Every time we meet there is a crust of ice between us to be broken, and
it is at least a quarter of an hour before we can take up our last
conversation at the point where we left it. If we saw each other
oftener, however, doubtless there would be no ice at all. Which do you
prefer, the end, or the beginning of our meetings?
You have not thanked me for not mentioning Versailles to you. I think of
it often, I assure you. I have something to show you, which I forgot; it
belongs to _auld lang syne_. Come, guess, if you can. When I see you I
forget all I intended to say. I made a note of a lecture I wanted to
deliver about your jealousy of your brother. In your rôle of sister, as
I conceive it, you ought to wish for your brother to love some good and
worthy woman. Bear in mind that you can not prevent it in any case, and
if you will not be a happy, or at least a resigned confidante, you will
certainly become estranged from him.
Good-bye. My finger is deucedly painful, but I am told this is a good
symptom. By way of diversion, I will think of your hands and feet. You
think of them seldom, I am sure.