P.S. I meant to notice that passage in your letter in which you mention
Beaunoir; but I forgot it till this moment. So you are at last inclined
to think Anna St. Ives must be something more than you every day meet,
from the rapturous description of that rodomontade Count? After all I
have written, your faith wanted the seal of such a lunatic? Had you
forgotten that the time was when I would have married her? And did that
say nothing?
The Count is preparing for England? Let him come! I remember one of his
crazy phrases and claims was that he would be her champion, should ever
base knight attempt to do her harm. Nor have I forgotten his intended
visit, received by Henley. May the winds set fair and blow him quickly
over! Should he have any such frolics in his brain, we shall not be
long in coming to terms.
This Mac Fane is incessantly importuning me to play, and what is
strange has several times excited the desire in me. I took up the dice
box, after we had been to the mad-house, and threw half a dozen casts
at hazard; but I soon found it was in vain, and checked myself. I know
I have the command of my own temper in that respect.
I have been reading over this tedious homily, and find it most
ineffably dull. But what is to be done? My gaiety is gone. My high
spirits are converted into black bile. My thoughts are hellebore and
deadly night-shade, and hilarity is for ever poisoned.