not writing at first; but apparently she cherishes rancour.  It is not like her.  I can’t help thinking there must be one letter from her, and that you keep it back.  I remember that I told you when I left England I desired to have no letter forwarded to me, but I have repeatedly asked you since if there was a letter, and it appears to me that you have shuffled in your answer.  I merely wish to know if there is a letter; because I am at present out in my study of her character.  It seems monstrous that she should never have written!  Don’t you view it in that light?  To be ready to break with me, without one good-bye!—­it’s gratifying, but I am astonished; for so gentle and tender a creature, such as I knew her, never existed to compare with her.  Ce qui est bien la preuve que je ne la connaissais pas!  I thought I did, which was my error.  I have a fatal habit of trusting to my observation less than to my divining wit; and La Rochefoucauld is right:  ’on est quelquefois un sot avec de l’esprit; mais on ne Pest jamais avec du jugement.’  Well! better be deceived in a character than doubt it.

“This will soon be over.  Then back to the dear old dusky chambers, with the pick and the axe in the mine of law, till I strike a gold vein, and follow it to the woolsack.  I want peace.  I begin to hate pleading.  I hope to meet Death full-wigged.  By my troth, I will look as grimly at him as he at me.  Meantime, during a vacation, I will give you holiday (or better, in the February days, if I can spare time and Equity is dispensed without my aid), dine you, and put you in the whirl of Paris.  You deserve a holiday.  Nunc est bibendum!  You shall sing it.  Tell me what you think of her behaviour.  You are a judge of women.  I think I am developing nerves.  In fact, work is what I need—­a file to bite.  And send me also the name of this man who has made the bargain—­who is to be her husband.  Give me a description of him.  It is my duty to see that he has principle; at least we’re bound to investigate his character, if it’s really to go on.  I wonder whether you will ever perceive the comedy of, life.  I doubt whether a man is happier when he does perceive it.  Perhaps the fact is, that he has by that time lost his power of laughter; except in the case of here and there a very tremendous philosopher.

“I believe that we comic creatures suffer more than your tragic personages.  We, do you see, are always looking to be happy and comfortable; but in a tragedy, the doomed wretches are liver-complexioned from the opening act.  Their laughter is the owl:  their broadest smile is twilight.  All the menacing horrors of an eclipse are ours, for we have a sun over us; but they are born in shades, with the tuck of a curtain showing light, and little can be taken from them; so that they find scarce any terrors in the inevitable final stroke.  No; the comedy is painfullest.  You and I, Algy, old bachelors, will earn the right just to chuckle.  We will