to the ultimate syllable.  Domizia disappoints me rather.  You might throw a flash more of light on her face—­might you not?  But what am I talking?  I think it a magnificent work—­a noble exposition of the ingratitude of men against their ‘heroes,’ and (what is peculiar) an humane exposition ... not misanthropical, after the usual fashion of such things:  for the return, the remorse, saves it—­and the ‘Too late’ of the repentance and compensation covers with its solemn toll the fate of persecutors and victim.  We feel that Husain himself could only say afterward ... ‘That is done.’ And now—­surely you think well of the work as a whole?  You cannot doubt, I fancy, of the grandeur of it—­and of the subtilty too, for it is subtle—­too subtle perhaps for stage purposes, though as clear, ... as to expression ... as to medium ... as ‘bricks and mortar’ ... shall I say?

    ’A people is but the attempt of many
    To rise to the completer life of one.’

There is one of the fine thoughts.  And how fine he is, your Luria, when he looks back to his East, through the half-pardon and half-disdain of Domizia.  Ah—­Domizia! would it hurt her to make her more a woman ... a little ...  I wonder!

So I shall begin from the beginning, from the first act, and read through ... since I have read the fifth twice over.  And remember, please, that I am to read, besides, the ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’ and that I shall dun you for it presently.  Because you told me it was finished, otherwise I would not speak a word, feeling that you want rest, and that I, who am anxious about you, would be crossing my own purposes by driving you into work.  It is the overwork, the overwear of mind and heart (for the feelings come as much into use as the thoughts in these productions), that makes you so pale, dearest, that distracts your head, and does all the harm on Saturdays and so many other days besides.

To-day—­how are you?  It was right and just for me to write this time, after the two dear notes ... the one on Saturday night which made me praise you to myself and think you kinder than kindest, and the other on Monday morning which took me unaware—­such a note, that was!  Oh it was right and just that I should not teaze you to send me another after those two others,—­yet I was very near doing it—­yet I should like infinitely to hear to-day how you are—­unreasonable!—­Well! you will write now—­you will answer what I am writing, and mention yourself particularly and sincerely—­Remember!  Above all, you will care for your head.  I have been thinking since yesterday that, coming out of the cold, you might not have refused as usual to take something ... hot wine and water, or coffee?  Will you have coffee with me on Saturday?  ‘Shunning the salt,’ will you have the sugar?  And do tell me, for I have been thinking, are you careful as to diet—­and will such sublunary things as coffee and tea and cocoa affect your head—­for or against!  Then you do not touch wine—­and perhaps you ought.  Surely something may be found or done to do you good.  If it had not been for me, you would be travelling in Italy by this time and quite well perhaps.