Since I wrote to you what would be called in law proceedings the exhibit
marked A, I have been round to the Hotel Brighton, and personally
examined and cross-examined the attendants. It is painfully clear to me
that I shall not see you to-night, nor until Tuesday, the 10th of
December, when, please God, I shall re-arrive here, on my way to my
Italian bowers. I mean to stay all the Wednesday and all the Thursday in
Paris. One night to see you act (my old delight when you little thought
of such a being in existence), and one night to read to you and Mrs.
Macready (if that scamp of Lincoln's Inn Fields has not anticipated me)
my little Christmas book, in which I have endeavoured to plant an
indignant right-hander on the eye of certain wicked Cant that makes my
blood boil, which I hope will not only cloud that eye with black and
blue, but many a gentle one with crystal of the finest sort. God forgive
me, but I think there are good things in the little story!
I took it for granted you were, as your American friends say, "in full
blast" here, and meant to have sent a card into your dressing-room, with
"Mr. G. S. Hancock Muggridge, United States," upon it. But Paris looks
coldly on me without your eye in its head, and not being able to shake
your hand I shake my own head dolefully, which is but poor satisfaction.
My love to Mrs. Macready. I will swear to the death that it is truly
hers, for her gallantry in your absence if for nothing else, and to you,
my dear Macready, I am ever a devoted friend.
[Sidenote: Mrs. Charles Dickens.]