Indeed, dearest, you shall not have last word as you think,—­all the ‘risk’ shall not be mine, neither; how can I, in the event, throw ambs-ace (is not that the old word?) and not peril your stakes too, when once we have common stock and are partners?  When I see the unicorn and grieve proportionately, do you mean to say you are not going to grieve too, for my sake?  And if so—­why, you clearly run exactly the same risk,—­must,—­unless you mean to rejoice in my sorrow!  So your chance is my chance; my success your success, you say, and my failure, your failure, will you not say?  You see, you see, Ba, my own—­own!  What do you think frightened me in your letter for a second or two?  You write ’Let us talk on Thursday ...  Monday I forgot’—­which I read,—­’no, not on Thursday—­I had forgotten!  It is to be Monday when we meet next’!—­whereat

              ... as a goose
    In death contracts his talons close,

as Hudibras sings—­I clutched the letter convulsively—­till relief came.

So till to-morrow—­my all-beloved!  Bless you.  I am rather hazy in the head as Archer Gurney will find in due season—­(he comes, I told you)—­but all the morning I have been going for once and for ever through the ‘Tragedy,’ and it is done—­(done for).  Perhaps I may bring it to-morrow—­if my sister can copy all; I cut out a huge kind of sermon from the middle and reserve it for a better time—­still it is very long; so long!  So, if I ask, may I have ‘Luria’ back to morrow?  So shall printing begin, and headache end—­and ’no more for the present from your loving’

R.B.

E.B.B. to R.B.

                                Friday.
                                [Post-mark, March 20, 1846.]

I shall be late with my letter this morning because my sisters have been here talking, talking ... and I did not like to say exactly ’Go away that I may write.’  Mr. Kenyon shortened our time yesterday too by a whole half-hour or three quarters—­the stars are against us.  He is coming on Sunday, however, he says, and if so, Monday will be safe and clear—­and not a word was said after you went, about you:  he was in a good joyous humour, as you saw, and the letter he brought was, oh! so complimentary to me—­I will tell you.  The writer doesn’t see anything ‘in Browning and Turner,’ she confesses—­’may perhaps with time and study,’ but for the present sees nothing,—­only has wide-open eyes of admiration for E.B.B. ... now isn’t it satisfactory to me?  Do you understand the full satisfaction of just that sort of thing ... to be praised by somebody who sees nothing in Shakespeare?—­to be found on the level of somebody so flat?  Better the bad-word of the Britannia, ten times over!  And best, to take no thought of bad or good words! ... except such as I shall have to-night, perhaps!  Shall I?