Ah, one laughs, you see; one can’t help it now and then.  But at the real and rising feeling of the people by night and day one doesn’t laugh indeed.  I hear and see with the deepest sympathy of soul, on the contrary.  I love the Italians, too, and none the less that something of the triviality and innocent vanity of children abounds in them.  A delightful and most welcome letter was the last you sent me, my dearest friend.  Your bridal visit must have charmed you, and I am glad you had the gladness of witnessing some of the happiness of your friend, Mrs. Acton Tyndal, you who have such quick sympathies, and to whom the happiness of a friend is a gain counted in your own.  The swan’s shadow is something in a clear water.  For poor Mrs.——­, if she is really, as you say Mrs. Tyndal thinks, pining in an access of literary despondency, why that only proves to me that she is not happy otherwise, that her life and soul are not sufficiently filled for her woman’s need.  I cannot believe of any woman that she can think of fame first.  A woman of genius may be absorbed, indeed, in the exercise of an active power, engrossed in the charges of the course and the combat; but this is altogether different to a vain and bitter longing for prizes, and what prizes, oh, gracious heavens!  The empty cup of cold metal! so cold, so empty to a woman with a heart.  So, if your friend’s belief is true, still more deeply do I pity that other friend, who is supposed to be unhappy from such a cause.  A few days ago I saw a bride of my own family, Mrs. Reynolds, Arlette Butler, who married Captain Reynolds some five months since....  Many were her exclamations at seeing me.  She declared that such a change was never seen, I was so transfigured with my betterness:  ’Oh, Ba, it is quite wonderful indeed!’ We had been calculated on, during her three months in Rome, as a ‘piece of resistance,’ and it was a disappointment to find us here in a corner with the salt.  Just as I was praised was poor Flush criticised.  Flush has not recovered from the effects yet of the summer plague of fleas, and his curls, though growing, are not grown.  I never saw him in such spirits nor so ugly; and though Robert and I flatter ourselves upon ‘the sensible improvement,’ Arlette could only see him with reference to the past, when in his Wimpole Street days he was sleek and over fat, and she cried aloud at the loss of his beauty.  Then we have had [another] visitor, Mr. Hillard, an American critic, who reviewed me in [the old] world, and so came to view me in the new, a very intelligent man, of a good, noble spirit.  And Miss Boyle, ever and anon, comes at night, at nine o’clock, to catch us at our hot chestnuts and mulled wine, and warm her feet at our fire; and a kinder, more cordial little creature, full of talent and accomplishment, never had the world’s polish on it.  Very amusing, too, she is, and original, and a good deal of laughing she and Robert make between them.