boated, climbed, and kissed the earth, and danced round a cairn. It
was opposite Skye at a Heaven called Loch Ailsa.... Such
beauty--such weather--such a fortnight will not come again. Perhaps
it would be unjust to the crying world for one human being to have
more of the Spirit of Delight; but one is glad to have tasted of the
cup, and while it was in my hands I drank deeply.

I have read very little. I am hungering for a month or two's
silence.

But there was another lover than the west wind waiting for this most
lovable of mortals. A few days afterward she wrote to me from a house in
Hampshire, where many of her particular friends were gathered, among
them Alfred Lyttelton.

The conversation is pyrotechnic--and it is all quite delightful. A
beautiful place--paradoxical arguments--ideals raised and
shattered--temples torn and battered--temptations given way
to--newspapers unread--acting--rhyming--laughing--_ad infinitum_. I
wish you were here!

Six weeks afterward she was engaged to Mr. Lyttelton. She was to be
married in May, and in Easter week of that year we met her in Paris,
where she was buying her trousseau, enjoying it like a child, making
friends with all her dressmakers, and bubbling over with fun about it.
"It isn't 'dressing,'" she said, "unless you apply main force to them.
What they _want_ is always--_presque pas de corsage, et pas du
tout de manches!_"

One day she and Mr. Lyttelton and Mr. Balfour and one or two others came