toothache in his life, strap one of his legs in a section of water-
spout, keep him in a room in the city for weeks, with the hot
weather turned on, and then expect him to smile and purr and be
happy! It is preposterous. I can't be cheerful or calm.

Your letter is the first consoling thing I have had since my
disaster, ten days ago. It really cheered me up for half an hour.
Send me a screed, Ned, as often as you can, if you love me.
Anything will do. Write me more about that little girl in the
hammock. That was very pretty, all that about the Dresden china
shepherdess and the pond-lily; the imagery a little mixed, perhaps,
but very pretty. I didn't suppose you had so much sentimental
furniture in your upper story. It shows how one may be familiar for
years with the reception-room of his neighbor, and never suspect
what is directly under his mansard. I supposed your loft stuffed
with dry legal parchments, mortgages, and affidavits; you take down
a package of manuscript, and lo! there are lyrics and sonnets and
canzonettas. You really have a graphic descriptive touch, Edward
Delaney, and I suspect you of anonymous love-tales in the
magazines.

I shall be a bear until I hear from you again. Tell me all about
your pretty inconnue across the road. What is her name? Who is she?
Who's her father? Where's her mother? Who's her lover? You cannot
imagine how this will occupy me. The more trifling, the better. My
imprisonment has weakened me intellectually to such a degree that I
find your epistolary gifts quite considerable. I am passing into my
second childhood. In a week or two I shall take to India rubber
rings and prongs of coral. A silver cup, with an appropriate
inscription, would be a delicate attention on your part. In the