I must write this at railroad speed, for I have been at it all day, and
have numbers of letters to cram into the next half-hour. I began the
morning in the City, for the Theatrical Fund; went on to Shepherd's
Bush; came back to leave cards for Mr. Baring and Mr. Bates; ran across
Piccadilly to Stratton Street, stayed there an hour, and shot off here.
I have been in four cabs to-day, at a cost of thirteen shillings. Am
going to dine with Mark and Webster at half-past four, and finish the
evening at the Adelphi.
The dinner was very successful. Charley was in great force, and floored
Peter Cunningham and the Audit Office on a question about some bill
transactions with Baring's. The other guests were B. and E., Shirley
Brooks, Forster, and that's all. The dinner admirable. I never had a
better. All the wine I sent down from Tavistock House. Anne waited, and
looked well and happy, very much brighter altogether. It gave me great
pleasure to see her so improved. Just before dinner I got all the
letters from home. They could not have arrived more opportunely.
The godfather's present looks charming now it is engraved, and John is
just now going off to take it to Mrs. Yates. To-morrow Wills and I are
going to Gad's Hill. It will occupy the whole day, and will just leave
me time to get home to dress for dinner.
And that's all that I have to say, except that the first number of
"Little Dorrit" has gone to forty thousand, and the other one fast
following.
My best love to Catherine, and to Mamey and Katey, and Walter and Harry,
and the noble Plorn. I am grieved to hear about his black eye, and fear
that I shall find it in the green and purple state on my return.
Ever affectionately.