_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _May_ 25_th_, 1886.
DEAR MISS MONROE,—(I hope I have this rightly) I must lose no time in
thanking you for a letter singularly pleasant to receive. It may
interest you to know that I read to the signature without suspecting my
correspondent was a woman; though in one point (a reference to the
Countess) I might have found a hint of the truth. You are not pleased
with Otto; since I judge you do not like weakness; and no more do I. And
yet I have more than tolerance for Otto, whose faults are the faults of
weakness, but never of ignoble weakness, and who seeks before all to be
both kind and just. Seeks, not succeeds. But what is man? So much of
cynicism to recognise that nobody does right is the best equipment for
those who do not wish to be cynics in good earnest. Think better of
Otto, if my plea can influence you; and this I mean for your own sake—not
his, poor fellow, as he will never learn your opinion; but for yours,
because, as men go in this world (and women too), you will not go far
wrong if you light upon so fine a fellow; and to light upon one and not
perceive his merits is a calamity. In the flesh, of course, I mean; in
the book the fault, of course, is with my stumbling pen. Seraphina made
a mistake about her Otto; it begins to swim before me dimly that you may
have some traits of Seraphina?
With true ingratitude you see me pitch upon your exception; but it is
easier to defend oneself gracefully than to acknowledge praise. I am
truly glad that you should like my books; for I think I see from what you
write that you are a reader worth convincing. Your name, if I have
properly deciphered it, suggests that you may be also something of my
countrywoman; for it is hard to see where Monroe came from, if not from
Scotland. I seem to have here a double claim on your good nature: being
myself pure Scotch and having appreciated your letter, make up two
undeniable merits which, perhaps, if it should be quite without trouble,
you might reward with your photograph.—Yours truly,