Paris, June 10, 1846.

When I opened the package of books I was silly enough to think I should find a note from you, and that you would have been inspired by the glorious sunshine. Not a line! So I had to read once more your letter received this morning, which seemed a little stale at the second reading. To-day is not the first time I have observed in your correspondence, and in general in your whole attitude towards me, a sort of impartial equilibrium. You are never nearer committing some act of perversity than when you have just shown me a sign of your affection and amiability. You promised to give me a day soon, but if I were to wait for you to keep your promises the patience with which heaven has endowed me would be exhausted.

The other day you said good-bye to me with as much indifference as that with which you had greeted me. It was not so the previous time. It is a curious phenomenon that water which has boiled freezes more readily than cold water. You are an illustration of this fact in physics. When you left me you were in your sulking mood, so I shall expect you to be charming Wednesday. We must visit our pretty avenues again, after they have been newly gravelled for your benefit. You will give me much pleasure by coming. But this is not the way to appeal to you. If you have any curiosity, I will reward it by showing you a monument of auld lang syne. I will give you something besides; at least, I intended to give you something, but you have treated me so cruelly—first in writing the kind of letter I received this morning, and then in writing nothing at all when you sent the books—that I am not sure whether I shall offer you this present. Still, if you ask for it, I shall probably yield.

As you know, I have become an accomplished weather prophet. The wind is due north-east, and this means several fine days ahead. I wish you would pay as much attention as I do to the sun and the rain.