should be together,--so much more natural than that you
should be living in Dublin. I cannot conceive of you as
living any other life than that of the House of Commons,
Downing Street, and the clubs. Nor do I wish to do so. And
when I hear of you at Harrington Hall I know that you are
on your way to the other things.

Do tell me what life is like with Oswald and Violet. Of
course he never writes. He is one of those men who, on
marrying, assume that they have at last got a person to do
a duty which has always hitherto been neglected. Violet
does write, but tells me little or nothing of themselves.
Her letters are very nice, full of anecdote, well written,
--letters that are fit to be kept and printed; but they
are never family letters. She is inimitable in discussing
the miseries of her own position as the wife of a Master
of Hounds; but the miseries are as evidently fictitious as
the art is real. She told me how poor dear Lady Baldock
communicated to you her unhappiness about her daughter in
a manner that made even me laugh; and would make thousands
laugh in days to come were it ever to be published. But
of her inside life, of her baby, or of her husband as a
husband, she never says a word. You will have seen it all,
and have enough of the feminine side of a man's character
to be able to tell me how they are living. I am sure they
are happy together, because Violet has more common sense
than any woman I ever knew.

And pray tell me about the affair at Tankerville. My
cousin Barrington writes me word that you will certainly