Thursday, January, 1843.

Let us take advantage of the fine weather to-day.

At the appointed place, then, “at two o’clock to-morrow, Thursday.” I say to-day, for it is now one o’clock. The stars are shining brightly, and as I returned a while ago from the ministerial assembly, I found the walking as tolerable as it was the last time we were out. Wear your seven-league boots, however—it is safer. If by chance you should be out when this letter arrives, I shall wait for you until half past two; if you do not come at all to-day, then Saturday. To any one else but you I should say something else.

I wished to write you a letter to-day, but remembering my promise, I have decided not to do so. I did wrong. You should have appointed the day and the hour, which would have saved us the inconvenience of missing each other. I hope, however, that this will not happen. I suppose you are really anxious to take this walk, for your letter is colder than usual. There is a charming equipoise in your actions. You are unwilling that I should ever be perfectly happy, so you make your plans in advance to put me in a rage. This will be, perhaps, more difficult than you think, for although I have been ill for two days, the world to-day looks rose-colour.

I dined yesterday at a house where, as I entered the room late, among a lot of women I thought I saw you. Consequently I was struck dumb for a quarter of an hour. I did not glance in the direction of the person I supposed to be you, unable to decide, as is always the case when one is embarrassed, whether to speak to you or not.

Making a desperate effort finally, I walked up to the lady, who turned out to be a Spanish woman whom I had met several times. It only rests with her to believe che ha fatto colpo. I am sending you Dickens’ Sketches, which amused me when I read them. You may have read them already, but no matter! At two o’clock, then, to-day, Thursday.