prettier daily) rather inclines to the idea that the moderation of these French dragoons is in their favour; and this is the first time I have found her judgment at fault.  But then it would be unreasonable indeed to hope that on military subjects she could have that clear insight which she displays with such charming grace, whether we are contemplating the Marriage of Cana, in the Louvre, or thinking over the scenes some of those orange-trees in the Tuileries gardens have shed leaves upon.  For, let me tell you, my dear Mac, there are trees there, the flowers of which have trembled at the silver laugh of unhappy Antoinette.  Sallow Robespierre has rubbed against them.  They were in their glory on that July day when the mob of blouses tasted of the cellars of a King.

“But you can get in Murray all I can tell you of the wonderful place in which it has been my fortune to find myself with my little wife.  When, on the morning after our arrival, I threw my bedroom window open, the air was, I thought, the sweetest that had ever refreshed my nostrils.  The scene would have been perfect, had it not been for swarms of wasps that dashed their great bodies, barred, as Carrie said, like grooms’ waistcoats (wasn’t it clever of her?) into the room.  If everything were not flavoured with garlic (peaches included), I should say without hesitation, that our hote is THE cordon bleu of the country.  Omelettes, my dear Mac, as light as syllabub; wild strawberries frosted with the finest white sugar I ever put to my lips; coffee that would make a Turk dance with delight; only, in each and all of these dainties, there is just a pinch of garlic.  But love makes light of these little drawbacks.  Carrie has made a wry face once or twice, it is true, but only in the best of humours, and when the garlic was very strong indeed.

“We had a rainy day yesterday:  but we enjoyed it.  We sat all the morning at our window, gossiping and flirting, and watching the peasants sauntering home from market, apparently unconscious that they were being drenched.  I had bought Carrie a huge sugar stick (sucre de pomme, I think they call it), and she looked bewitchingly as she nibbled it, and then coaxingly held it to my lips.  You remember my old antipathy to sweets; well, strange to say, I thought I had never tasted anything more delicious than this sugar stick; but remember, it came direct from Carrie’s lips.  Then we speculated on what our friends were doing at that very moment, peeped into Clapham, and we made bad guesses enough, I have no doubt.  It ended by our agreeing that none of you were half so happy as we were.