London, British Museum, July 20, 1860.

It is certainly very kind of you not to have given me an intimation of life, or a word of farewell before my departure. I shall not forgive you until the next time we meet. I was delayed by all sorts of hindrances, and not until yesterday morning was I able to leave, and in diabolical weather. However, I behaved with heroism during the passage, and was almost the only passenger who did not deliver up his soul to the angry waves.

I found the weather here eclipses that of Paris. It always takes me some time to become accustomed to the singular light in London. It has the appearance of passing through a brown gauze. This light, and the absence of curtains at the windows, will annoy me for several days. On the other hand, I am feasted with every sort of good thing, and dined and breakfasted like an ogre, which has not happened in a long, long time. My sole regret is that my little owl is not with me, for it plays about the floor at night like the cat you used to know. ‘Tis a pretty creature, I assure you, and has an intelligence out of all proportion to her size, for she is no longer than my hand.

It is distinctly important for me to know definitely, before the end of July, what time you intend to come to Paris, how long you expect to remain, and when you propose to go to Algiers. I must know your plans before forming my own. I need not tell you that you will be the determining motive for me, whether to leave the Highlands earlier, or even whether to go there at all. Do not imagine, and do not even pretend to imagine, that this would be a sacrifice. I should return to-morrow, if you were to send me word that you were in Paris. You may write to me here until the 30th.

Good-bye. I am very cross, indeed, with you.