oss forever, weep for me.

* * * * *

_From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe-Bysset,' to Lady Gwendolen
Chichester, St. Petersburg._

Coombe is quite too lovely now. It does rain sometimes, certainly; but
between the showers it is so delicious. I asked Piero to come out and
hear the nightingale,--there really is one in the home wood,--and he
laughed at the idea. He said, "We have hundreds of nightingales shouting
all day and all night at Lanciano. We don't think about them; we eat
them in _pasta_: they are very good." Fancy eating a nightingale! You
might as well eat Romeo and Juliet. Piero has got a number of French
books from London, and he lies about on the couches and reads them. He
wants me to listen to naughty bits of fun out of them; but I will not,
and then he calls me a prude, and gets angry. I don't see why he
shouldn't laugh as much as he likes himself without telling me why he
laughed. I dislike that sort of thing. I am horribly afraid I shall care
for nothing but him all my life; while he--he yawned yesterday. Papa
said to me, before we were married, "My dear little girl, San Zenone
put on such a lot of steam at first, he'll be obliged to ease his pace
after a bit. Don't be vexed if you find the thing cooling!" Now, papa
speaks so oddly; always that sort of floundering, bald metaphor: you
remember it; but I knew what he meant. Nobody could _go on_ being such a
lover as Piero was. Ah, dear, it is in the past already! No, I don't
quite mean that. He is Romeo still very often, and he sings me the
divinest love-songs, lying at my feet on cushions, in the moonlight. But
it is not quite the same thing as it was at first. He found fault with
one of my gowns this morning, and said I was _fagotee_. _Fagotee!_ I am
terribly frightened lest Coombe has bored him too much. I would come
here. I wanted to be utterly out of the world, and so did he; and I'm
sure there isn't a lovers' nest anywhere comparable to Coombe in
midsummer. You remember the rose-garden, and the lime-avenues, and the
chapel ruins by the little lake? When Aunt Carrie offered it to us for
this June I was so delighted; but now I am half afraid the choice of it
was a mistake, and that he does not know what to do with himself. He is
_depayse_. I cried a little yesterday: it was too silly, but I couldn't
help it. He laughed at me, but he got a little angry. "_Enfin que
veux-tu?_" he said, impatiently: "_je suis a toi, bi