Although I said good-bye to you less than an hour ago, I cannot refrain from writing to tell you that a happy calm which seems to penetrate my whole being seems also to have wiped out all remembrance of the misery and unhappiness which has overwhelmed me lately.  Why cannot it always be so, or would life perhaps be then too blessed, too wholly happy for it to be life?  I know that you are free to-night, will you not write to me, that the first words my eyes fall upon to- morrow shall prove that to-day has not been a dream?  Yes, write to me.

The letter that immediately follows is one of six words only: 

   Let me dream—­Let me dream.

In the following there are interesting touches of actuality: 

Did you ever try a cup of tea (the national beverage, by the way) at an English railway station?  If you have not, I would advise you, as a friend, to continue to abstain!  The names of the American drinks are rather against them, the straws are, I think, about the best part of them.  You do not tell me what you think of Mr. Disraeli.  I once met him at a ball at the Duke of Sutherland’s in the long picture gallery of Stafford House.  I was walking with Lord Shrewsbury, and without a word of warning he stopped and introduced him, mentioning with reckless mendacity that I had read every book he had written and admired them all, then he coolly walked off and left me standing face to face with the great statesman.  He talked to me for some time, and I studied him carefully.  I should say he was a man with one steady aim:  endless patience, untiring perseverance, iron concentration; marking out one straight line before him so unbending that despite themselves men stand aside as it is drawn straightly and steadily on.  A man who believes that determination brings strength, strength brings endurance, and endurance brings success.  You know how often in his novels he speaks of the influence of women, socially, morally, and politically, yet his manner was the least interested or deferential in talking that I have ever met with in a man of his class.  He certainly thought this particular woman of singularly small account, or else the brusque and tactless allusion to his books may perhaps have annoyed him as it did me; but whatever the cause, when he promptly left me at the first approach of a mutual acquaintance, I felt distinctly snubbed.  Of the two men, Mr. Gladstone was infinitely more agreeable in his manner, he left one with the pleasant feeling of measuring a little higher in cubic inches than one did before, than which I know no more delightful sensation.  A Paris, bientot.

Elsewhere, we find cleverly-written descriptions of life in Italy, in Algiers, at Hombourg, at French boarding-houses; stories about Napoleon III., Guizot, Prince Gortschakoff, Montalembert, and others; political speculations, literary criticisms, and witty social scandal; and everywhere a keen sense of humour, a