nd calm and indifference, that I am almost surprised to find
myself unaltered outwardly. I am a little paler than common--that is
all. My mind finds natural employment in the most trivial speculations
and fancies, and it is chiefly to save myself from this vanity of
thought that I write now of myself and my own concernings.

I have written at this little story of my own in poverty and in success,
in happiness and in sorrow, and it has come at last to seem that the
plain white paper before me is my only fitting confidant. Will there
ever come a day when I shall be able to read all its record gladly? Past
joys are a grief--griefs gone by are a joy to us. Who knows what may
come?

And so, poor Hope, you would spread your peacock wings even here? Ah,
go your way! You forget. Our companionship is dissolved. We are not on
speaking terms any longer.

I have not been plagued with any official severities, for Ratuzzi is
mindful of old favours. He has told me only this morning that my father
extended some such kindness to his father as that for which he bears
such grateful memory to me. It was a small affair; a mere matter of
money. Against my wish he brought to me a doctor and an advocate. I
submitted myself to the first, but to the advocate I declined to listen.

He is a pale young man of five-and-twenty or thereabouts, this advocate.
He has a cleanshaven face of rare mobility, a mouth of remarkable
decision and sweetness, and eyes of black fire. The most noticeable
thing about him is his voice, which is not easily to be characterised.
You know the sub-acid flavour in a generous Burgundy--so nicely
proportioned that it does but give the wine a grip on the tongue and
palate. That is the nearest thing I can think of to the singular quality
of this man's voice. The voice is rich and full; but there is a tart
flavour in it which emphasises all it says just as the acid emphasises
the riper flavours of wine. It takes the kind of grip upon the ear that
a file takes upon steel. Or, better than all, it takes just that hold
upon the ear which the violin bow takes upon the strings. Ecco. There
is my meaning at last. It is not possible that you should escape from
listening to this young man when he speaks. He is, further, a young man
whom nothing can abash. It is not singular, then, since I am indifferent
to all things now that although I declined to listen to him, he stayed
and talked, and after much trouble brought me to talk with him