(I, the _adviser_, I should remember!) too early, or too
late descent to the drawing-room, and all might be ruined,--thrown
back so far ... seeing that our flight is to be prayed for 'not in the
winter'--and one would be called on to wait, wait--in this world where
nothing waits, rests, as can be counted on. Now think of this, too,
dearest, and never mind the slowness, for the sureness' sake! How
perfectly happy I am as you stand by me, as yesterday you stood, as
you seem to stand now!

I will write to-morrow more: I came home last night with a head rather
worse; which in the event was the better, for I took a little medicine
and all is very much improved to-day. I shall go out presently, and
return very early and take as much care as is proper--for I thought of
Ba, and the sublimities of Duty, and that gave myself airs of
importance, in short, as I looked at my mother's inevitable arrow-root
this morning. So now I am well; so now, is dearest Ba well? I shall
hear to-night ... which will have its due effect, that circumstance,
in quickening my retreat from Forster's Rooms. All was very pleasant
last evening--and your letter &c. went _a qui de droit_, and Mr. W.
_Junior_ had to smile good-naturedly when Mr. Burges began laying down
this general law, that the sons of all men of genius were poor
creatures--and Chorley and I exchanged glances after the fashion of
two Augurs meeting at some street-corner in Cicero's time, as he says.
And Mr. Kenyon was kind, kinder, kindest, as ever, 'and thus ends a
wooing'!--no, a dinner--my wooing ends never, never; and so prepare
to be asked to give, and give, and give till all is given in Heaven!
And all I give _you_ is just my heart's blessing; God bless you, my
dearest, dearest Ba!

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, March 11, 1846.]

You find my letter I trust, for it was written this morning in time;
and if these two lines should not be flattery ... oh, rank flattery!
... why happy letter is it, to help to bring you home ten minutes
earlier, when you never ought to have left home--no, indeed! I knew
how it would be yesterday, and how you would be worse and not better.
You are not fit to go out, dear dearest, to sit in the glare of lights
and talk and listen, and have the knives and forks to rattle all the
while and remind you of the chains of necessity. Oh--should I bear it,
do you think? I was thin