O I say, will you kindly tell me all about the bust of Clytie.

Then I had the wisdom to stop and look over Japanese picture books until lunch time.

Well, tell me all about Clytie, how old is it, who did it, what’s it about, etc. Send it on a sheet that I can forward without indiscretion to another, as I desire the information for a friend whom I wish to please.

Now, look here. When I have twelve stories ready—these twelve—

All
Scotch.		{I.The Devil on Cramond Sands (needs copying about half).
II.The Curate of Anstruther’s Bottle (needs copying altogether).
III.The Two Falconers of Cairnstane (wants a few pages).
IV.Strange Adventures of Mr. Nehemiah Solny (wants reorganisation).
V.King Matthias’s Hunting Horn (all ready).
VI.Autolycus at Court (in gremio).
VII.The Family of Love (in gremio).
VIII.The Barrel Organ (all ready).
IX.The Last Sinner (wants copying).
X.Margery Bonthron (wants a few pages).
XI.Martin’s Madonna (in gremio).
XII.Life and Death (all ready).

—when I have these twelve ready, should I not do better to try to get a publisher for them, call them A Book of Stories and put a good dedicatory letter at the fore end of them. I should get less coin than by going into magazines perhaps; but I should also get more notice, should I not? and so, do better for myself in the long run. Now, should I not? Besides a book with boards is a book with boards, even if it bain’t a very fat one and has no references to Ammianus Marcellinus and German critics at the foot of the pages. On all this, I shall want your serious advice. I am sure I shall stand or fall by the stories; and you’ll think so too, when you see those poor excrescences the two John Knox and Women games. However, judge for yourself and be prudent on my behalf, like a good soul.

Yes, I’ll come to Cambridge then or thereabout, if God doesn’t put a real tangible spoke in my wheel.

My terms with my parents are admirable; we are a very united family.

Good-bye, mon cher, je ne puis plus écrire. I have not quite got over a damned affecting part in my story this morning. O cussed stories, they will never affect any one but me I fear.—Ever yours,