the Billsbury voters." I asked her how she could say such a thing,
told her I never could forget the happy hours I'd spent with her at
Exhibitions and dances, and so forth, and assured her I loathed the
Billsbury voters (which, by the way, I really think I do). I was
just beginning to screw myself up to the pitch of asking her _the_
question, in fact, I had taken her hand, and was actually stuttering
out something which made her look down at her feet (she's got the
smallest and prettiest foot I ever saw), when the footman opened the
door and announced POMFRET. Of course POMFRET must have seen something
was up. He's a beast, but not a fool. But he chattered away volubly,
just as if he were the most delightful and welcome person in the
world. I got so angry after ten minutes of it, and my toes and fingers
began to have such an almost irresistible longing to be at him, that
I thought it best to go. But MARY gave me a look as I went away which
simply went right through me, the kindest and most beautiful look any
two eyes ever gave to an unhappy man. I shut my eyes constantly and
bring the whole scene back, and in imagination I throw POMFRET out of
the window, and carry MARY in triumph to the nearest church, while her
mother quotes the late Mr. GATTLETON's poetry over us in blessing. And
then I open them again and find myself in this hole.

Dinner with the CHORKLES on Saturday.

_May 23_.--Started canvassing yesterday and continued to-day under the
charge of Mr. DIKES, one of the Town Councillors. "Old DICKY DIKES,"
the people here always call him. He's supposed to be one of the most
knowing cards in the whole county. A man of about sixty-four, with
light brown hair, rather curly, a wig, say his detractors, but I can't
make my mind up about it yet, as I haven't been able to study him
closely with his hat off. His head is large, face a cross between J.L.