ONADO, JUNE 20.

I find myself more and more interested in him. It is not, I am sure,
his--do you know any good noun corresponding to the adjective
"handsome"? One does not like to say "beauty" when speaking of a man. He
is beautiful enough, Heaven knows; I should not even care to trust you
with him--faithfulest of all possible wives that you are--when he looks
his best, as he always does. Nor do I think the fascination of his
manner has much to do with it. You recollect that the charm of art
inheres in that which is undefinable, and to you and me, my dear Irene,
I fancy there is rather less of that in the branch of art under
consideration than to girls in their first season. I fancy I know how my
fine gentleman produces many of his effects and could perhaps give him a
pointer on heightening them. Nevertheless, his manner is something truly
delightful. I suppose what interests me chiefly is the man's brains. His
conversation is the best I have ever heard and altogether unlike any one
else's. He seems to know everything, as indeed he ought, for he has been
everywhere, read everything, seen all there is to see--sometimes I think
rather more than is good for him--and had acquaintance with the
_queerest_ people. And then his voice--Irene, when I hear it I actually
feel as if I ought to have paid at the door, though of course it is my
own door.

JULY 3.

I fear my remarks about Dr. Barritz must have been, being thoughtless,
very silly, or you would not have written of him with such levity, not
to say disrespect. Believe me, dearest, he has more dignity and
seriousness (of the kind, I mean, which is not inconsistent with a
manner sometimes playful and always charming) than any of the men that
you and I ever met. And young Raynor--you knew Raynor at Monterey--tells
me that the men all like him and that he is treated with something like
deference everywhere. There is a mystery, too--something about his
connection with the Blavatsky people in Northern India. Raynor either
would not or could not tell me the particulars. I infer that Dr. Barritz
is thought--don't you dare to laugh!--a magician. Could anything be
finer than that?

An ordinary mystery is not, of course, so good as a scandal, but when it
relates to dark and dreadful practices--to the exercise of unearthly
powers--could anything be more piquant? It explains, too, the singular
influence the man has upon me. It is the undefinable in his art--black
art. Seriously, d