’Now I must rest “eyelids fall.”  It will be with a heart galloping.  No rest for me till this letter flies.  Good morning is my good night to you, in a world that has turned over.’

Henrietta resumes: 

’Livia will not hear of it, calls up all her pretty languor to put it aside.  It is the same to-day as last night.  “Why mention Russett’s nonsense to me?” Carinthia is as quietly circumstantial as at first.  She and the Tyrant talked of her native home.  Very desirous to see it! means to build a mansion there!  “He said it must be the most romantic place on earth.”

’I suppose I slept.  I woke with my last line to you on my lips, and the great news thundering.  He named Esslemont and his favourite—­always uninhabited—­Cader Argau.  She speaks them correctly.  She has an unfailing memory.  The point is, that it is a memory.

’Do not forget also—­Livia is affected by her distaste—­that he is a gentleman.  He plays with his nobility.  With his reputation of gentleman, he has never been known to play.  You will understand the slightly hypocritical air—­it is not of sufficient importance for it to be alluded to in papa’s presence—­I put on with her.

’Yes, I danced nearly all the dances.  One, a princeling in scarlet uniform, appearing fresh from under earth; Prussian:  a weighty young Graf in green, between sage and bottle, who seemed to have run off a tree in the forest, and was trimmed with silver like dew-drops:  one in your Austrian white, dragon de Boheme, if I caught his French rightly.  Others as well, a list.  They have the accomplishment.  They are drilled in it young, as girls are, and so few Englishmen—­even English officers.  How it may be for campaigning, you can pronounce; but for dancing, the pantalon collant is the perfect uniform.  Your critical Henrietta had not to complain of her partners, in the absence of the one.

’I shall be haunted by visions of Chillon’s amazement until I hear or we meet.  I serve for Carinthia’s mouthpiece, she cannot write it, she says.  It would be related in two copybook lines, if at all.

’The amazement over London!  The jewel hand of the kingdom gone in a flash, to “a raw mountain girl,” as will be said.  I can hear Lady Endor, Lady Eldritch, Lady Cowry.  The reasonable woman should be Lady Arpington.  I have heard her speak of your mother, seen by her when she was in frocks.

’Enter the “plighted.”  Poor Livia! to be made a dowager of by any but a damsel of the family.  She may well ridicule “that nonsense of Russett’s last night”!  Carinthia kisses, embraces, her brother.  I am to say:  “What Henrietta tells you is true, Chillon.”  She is contented though she has not seen him again and has not the look of expecting to see him.  She still wears the kind of afterglow.

’Chillon’s Viennese waltz was played by the band:  played a second time, special request, conveyed to the leader by Prince Ferdinand.  True, most true, she longs to be home across the water.  But be it admitted, that to any one loving colour, music, chivalry, the Island of Drab is an exile.  Imagine, then, the strange magnetism drawing her there!  Could warmer proof be given?