_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _February_ 5_th_, 1887.
MY DEAR LOCKER,—Here I am in my bed as usual, and it is indeed a long
while since I went out to dinner. You do not know what a crazy fellow
this is. My winter has not so far been luckily passed, and all hope of
paying visits at Easter has vanished for twelve calendar months. But
because I am a beastly and indurated invalid, I am not dead to human
feelings; and I neither have forgotten you nor will forget you. Some day
the wind may round to the right quarter and we may meet; till then I am
still truly yours,