likely to complain about 'the number of letters from Malvern;' and as
to my doing so, why did you suggest that? To fill up a sentence, or
to conjure up some kind of limping excuse for idle people? Among
idle people, perhaps you have written _me_ down. But the reason of
my silence was far more reasonable than yours. I have been engaged in
alternately wishing in earnest and wishing in vain for the power of
saying when I could go to Malvern--and in being unwell besides. For
the last week I have not been at all well, and indeed was obliged
yesterday to go to bed after breakfast instead of after tea, where
I contrived to abstract myself out of a good deal of pain into Lord
Byron's Life by Moore. To-day this abstraction is not necessary; I am
much better; and, indeed, little remains of the indisposition but
the _vulgar fractions_ of a cough and cold. I dare say (and Occyta[8]
agrees with me) cold was at the bottom of it all, for I was so very
wise as to lie down upon the grass last Monday, when the sun was
shining deceitfully, though the snow was staring at me from the
hedges, with an expression anything but dog-daysical!

Henrietta's face-ache is quite well, and I don't mean to give any more
bulletins to-day. I hope your 'tolerably well' is turned into 'quite
well' too by this time.

In reply to your query, I will mention that _the existence_ actually
extended until Thursday without the visit here--a phenomenon in
physics and metaphysics. I was desired by a note a short time
previously, 'to embrace all my circle with the utmost tenderness,'
_as proxy_. Considering the extent of the said circle, this was a very
comprehensive request, and a very unreasonable one to offer to anyone
less than the hundred-armed Indian god Baly. I am glad that
your alternative of a house is so near to the right side of the