makes you take them to be so bad, I suppose, is just feeling in
them how near we are. _You say that!_--not I.

Bad or good, you _are_ better--yes, 'better than the works and
words'!--though it was very shameful of you to insinuate that I talked
of fine speeches and passages and graphical and philosophical
sentences, as if I had proposed a publication of 'Elegant Extracts'
from your letters. See what blasphemy one falls into through a
beginning of light speech! It is wiser to talk of St. Petersburg; for
all Voltaire's ... '_ne disons pas de mal de Nicolas_.'

Wiser--because you will not go. If you were going ... well!--but there
is no danger--it would not do you good to go, I am so happy this time
as to be able to think--and your 'mission of humanity' lies
nearer--'strictly private and confidential'? but not in Harley
Street--so if you go _there_, dearest, keep to the 'one hour' and do
not suffer yourself to be tired and stunned in those hot rooms and
made unwell again--it is plain that you cannot bear that sort of
excitement. For Mr. Kenyon's note, ... it was a great temptation to
make a day of Friday--but I resist both for Monday's sake and for
yours, because it seems to me safer not to hurry you from one house to
another till you are tired completely. I shall think of you so much
the nearer for Mr. Kenyon's note--which is something gained. In the
meanwhile you are better, which is everything, or seems so. Ever
dearest, do you remember what it is to me that you should be better,
and keep from being worse again--I mean, of course, _try_ to keep from
being worse--be wise ... and do not stay long in those hot Harley
Street rooms. Ah--now you will think that I am afraid of the
unicorns!--

Through your being ill the other day I forgot, and afterwards went on
forgetting, to speak of and to return the ballad--which is delightful;
I have an unspeakable delight in those suggestive ballads, which seem
to make you touch with the end of your finger the full warm life of
other times ... so near they bring you, yet so suddenly all passes in
them. Certainly there is a likeness to your Duchess--it is a curious
crossing. And does it not strike you that a verse or two must be
wanting in the ballad--there is a gap, I fancy.

Tell Mr. Kenyon (if he enquires) that you come here on Monday instead
of Saturday--and if you can help it, do not mention Wednesday--it will
be as well, not. You met Alfred at the door--he came up to me
afterwa