. Browning, who writes first and at most length, ends by saying
she must leave a space for Robert, that Mr. Fox may be compensated for
reading all she has had to say. The husband continues as follows:

. . . 'A space for Robert' who has taken a breathing space--hardly more
than enough--to recover from his delight; he won't say surprise, at your
letter, dear Mr. Fox. But it is all right and, like you, I wish from my
heart we could get close together again, as in those old days, and what
times we would have here in Italy! The realization of the children's
prayer of angels at the corner of your bed (i.e. sofa), one to read
and one (my wife) to write,* and both to guard you through the night of
lodging-keeper's extortions, abominable charges for firing, and so on.
(Observe, to call oneself 'an angel' in this land is rather humble,
where they are apt to be painted as plumed cutthroats or celestial
police--you say of Gabriel at his best and blithesomest, 'Shouldn't
admire meeting _him_ in a narrow lane!')

* Mr. Fox much liked to be read to, and was in the habit
of writing his articles by dictation.

I say this foolishly just because I can't trust myself to be earnest
about it. I would, you know, I would, always would, choose you out of
the whole English world to judge and correct what I write myself; my
wife shall read this and let it stand if I have told her so these twelve
years--and certainly I have not grown intellectually an inch over the
good and kind hand you extended over my head how many years ago! Now it
goes over my wife's too.

How was it Tottie never came here as she promised? Is it to be some
other time? Do think of Florence, if ever you feel chilly, and hear
quantities about the Princess Royal's marriage, and want a change. I
hate the thought of leaving Italy for one day more than I can help--and
satisfy my English predilections by newspapers and a book or two.
One gets nothing of that kind here, but the stuff out of which books
grow,--it lies about one's feet indeed. Yet for me, there would be one
book better than any now to be got here or elsewhere, and all out of a
great English head and heart,--those 'Memoirs' you engaged to give us.
Will you give us them?

Goodbye now--if ever the whim strikes you to 'make beggars happy'
remember us.

Love to Tottie, and love and gratitude to you, dear Mr. Fox, From yours
ever affectionately, Robert Browning.

In the summer of this year, the poet wit