They were darkish hazel formerly, and talked more of
milkmaids and chattering pastorals than a discerning master would have
wished. Take credit for the change; and at least I don't blame you for
the tender hollows under the eyes, sloping outward, just hinted... Love's
mark on her, so that men's hearts may faint to know that love is known to
her, and burn to read her history. When she is about to speak, the upper
lids droop a very little; or else the under lids quiver upward--I know
not which. Take further credit for her manner. She has now a manner of
her own. Some of her naturalness has gone, but she has skipped clean over
the 'young lady' stage; from raw girl she has really got as much of the
great manner as a woman can have who is not an ostensibly retired
dowager, or a matron on a pedestal shuffling the naked virtues and the
decorous vices together. She looks at you with an immense, marvellous
gravity, before she replies to you--enveloping you in a velvet light.
This, is fact, not fine stuff, my dear fellow. The light of her eyes does
absolutely cling about you. Adieu! You are a great master, and know
exactly when to make your bow and retire. A little more, and you would
have spoilt her. Now she is perfect."

[Wilfrid to Tracy Runningbrook:]

"I have just come across a review of your last book, and send it,
thinking you may wish to see it. I have put a query to one of the
passages, which I think misquoted: and there will be no necessity to call
your attention to the critic's English. You can afford to laugh at it,
but I confess it puts your friends in a rage. Here are a set of fellows
who arm themselves with whips and stand in the public thoroughfare to
make any man of real genius run the gauntlet down their ranks till he
comes out flayed at the other extremity! What constitutes their right to
be there?--By the way, I met Sir Purcell Barrett (the fellow who was at
Hillford), and he would like to write an article on you that should act
as a sort of rejoinder. You won't mind, of course--it's bread to him,
poor devil! I doubt whether I shall see you when you comeback, so write a
jolly lot of letters. Colonel Pierson, of the Austrian army, my uncle
(did you meet him at Brookfield?), advises me to sell out immediately. He
is getting me an Imperial commission--cavalry. I shall give up the
English service. And if they want my medal, they can have it, and I'll
begin again. I'm sick of everything except a cigar and a good v