If I had had any idea of your coming (see how naturally I use the word
when I am three hundred miles off!) to London so soon, I would never
have written one word about the jump over next week. I am vexed that I
did so, but as I did I will not now propose a change in the
arrangements, as I know how methodical you tremendously old fellows are.
That's your secret I suspect. That's the way in which the blood of the
Mirabels mounts in your aged veins, even at your time of life.
How charmed I shall be to see you, and we all shall be, I will not
attempt to say. On that expected Sunday you will lunch at Amiens but not
dine, because we shall wait dinner for you, and you will merely have to
tell that driver in the glazed hat to come straight here. When the
Whites left I added their little apartment to this little apartment,
consequently you shall have a snug bedroom (is it not waiting expressly
for you?) overlooking the Champs Elysees. As to the arm-chair in my
heart, no man on earth----but, good God! you know all about it.
You will find us in the queerest of little rooms all alone, except that
the son of Collins the painter (who writes a good deal in "Household
Words") dines with us every day. Scheffer and Scribe shall be admitted
for one evening, because they know how to appreciate you. The Emperor we
will not ask unless you expressly wish it; it makes a fuss.
If you have no appointed hotel at Boulogne, go to the Hotel des Bains,
there demand "Marguerite," and tell her that I commended you to her
special care. It is the best house within my experience in France;
Marguerite the best housekeeper in the world.
I shall charge at "Little Dorrit" to-morrow with new spirits. The sight
of you is good for my boyish eyes, and the thought of you for my dawning
mind. Give the enclosed lines a welcome, then send them on to Sherborne.
Ever yours most affectionately and truly.
[Sidenote: Mr. W. H. Wills.]