I can hardly descend to tell you, we passed the ice from thence to Orleans, and dined out of doors on six feet of snow, in the charming enlivening warmth of the sun, though in the month of February, at a time when you in England scarce feel his beams.
Fitzgerald made violent love to me all the way, and I never felt myself listen with such complacency.
Adieu! I have wrote two immense letters. Write oftener; you are lazy, yet expect me to be an absolute slave in the scribbling way.
Your faithful
A. Fermor.
Do you know your brother has admirable ideas? He contrived to lose his way on our return, and kept Emily ten minutes behind the rest of the company. I am apt to fancy there was something like a declaration, for she blushed,
“Celestial rosy red,”
when he led her into the dining room at Silleri.
Once more, adieu!
LETTER LXXXII.82.
To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.