I am beginning to think this room where we take our tea is more like a
tinder-box than a quiet and safe place for "a party in a parlor." It is
true that there are at least two or three incombustibles at our table,
but it looks to me as if the company might pair off before the season is
over, like the crew of Her Majesty's ship the Mantelpiece,--three or four
weddings clear our whole table of all but one or two of the impregnables.
The poem we found in the sugar-bowl last week first opened my eyes to the
probable state of things. Now, the idea of having to tell a
love-story,--perhaps two or three love-stories,--when I set out with the
intention of repeating instructive, useful, or entertaining discussions,
naturally alarms me. It is quite true that many things which look to me
suspicious may be simply playful. Young people (and we have several such
among The Teacups) are fond of make-believe courting when they cannot
have the real thing,--"flirting," as it used to be practised in the days
of Arcadian innocence, not the more modern and more questionable
recreation which has reached us from the home of the cicisbeo. Whatever
comes of it, I shall tell what I see, and take the consequences.

But I am at this moment going to talk in my own proper person to my own
particular public, which, as I find by my correspondence, is a very
considerable one, and with which I consider myself in exceptionally
pleasant relations.

I have read recently that Mr. Gladstone receives six hundred letters a
day. Perhaps he does not receive six hundred letters every day, but if
he gets anything like half that number daily, what can he do with them?
There was a time when he was said to answer all his correspondents. It
is understood, I think, that he has given up doing so in these later
days.