Belle, who lay in the hotel verandah, and held a sort of
reception all night, had her longest visit from one of the blue-jackets,
her partner in the last ball. About one on the Sunday morning all was
over, and we went to bed--I, alas! only to get up again, my room being
in the verandah, where a certain solemnly absurd family conclave (all
drunk) was being held until (I suppose) three. By six, I was awake, and
went out on the verandah. On the east the dawn had broken, cold and pink
and rust colour, and the marshes were all smoking whitely and blowing
into the bay like smoke, but on the west, all was golden. The street was
empty, and right over it hung the setting moon, accurately round, yellow
as an apricot, but slumberous, with an effect of afternoon you would not
believe if you had not seen it. Then followed a couple of hours on the
verandah I would be glad to forget. By seven X. Y. had joined me, as
drunk as they make 'em. As he sat and talked to me, he smelt of the
charnel house, methought. He looked so old (he is one month my senior);
he spoke so silly; his poor leg is again covered with boils, which will
spell death to him; and--enough. That interview has made me a
teetotaller. O, it is bad to grow old. For me, it is practically hell. I
do not like the consolations of age. I was born a young man; I have
continued so; and before I end, a pantaloon, a driveller--enough again.
But I don't enjoy getting elderly. Belle and I got home about three in
the afternoon, she having in the meantime renounced all that makes life
worth living in the name of little Miss Gurr, and I seriously reflecting
on renouncing the kindly bowl in earnest! Presently after arrived the
news of Margery Ide (the C.J.'s daughter) being seriously ill,
alarmingly ill. Fanny wanted to go down; it was a difficult choice; she
was not fit for it; on the other hand (and by all accounts) the patient
would die if she did not get better nursing. So we made up our own
minds, and F. and I set out about dusk, came to the C.J.'s in the middle
of dinner, and announced our errand. I am glad to say the C.J. received
her very willingly; and I came home again, leaving her behind, where she
was certainly much wanted.

_Nov. 4th._--You ask about _St. Ives_. No, there is no Burford Bridge in
it, and no Boney. He is a squire of dames, and there are petticoats in
the story, and damned bad ones too, and it is of a tolerable length, a
hundred thousand, I believe, at least. Al