"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,—My eldest boy, who spends his honeymoon in Florence (is not that sugaring jam tart?), brings you this greeting from your silent but affectionate friends. Tell him all particulars about yourselves, and he will transmit them in his letters to us. First and foremost about the health of your wife, and how this bitter winter has treated her. Next about Bice, and then about yourself.
"We rejoice in the prospect of your History of Florence, and I am casting about, hoping to find somebody to review it worthily for the Fortnightly Review. By the way, would not you or your wife help me there also! Propose your subjects!
"I hope you will like our daughter. She is a noble creature; and
Charles is a lucky dog (his father's luck) to get such a wife.
"We have been and are in a poor state of health, but manage to scramble on. Charles will tell you all there is to tell. With our love to your dear wife and Bice,
"Believe me, ever faithfully yours,
"G.H. LEWES."
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Shortly after receiving this my wife had a letter from George Eliot, from Venice, dated 15th May, 1864. She writes from the "Hôtel de Ville."
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"MY DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,—I wonder whether you are likely to be at Lake Como next month, or at any other place that we could take on our way to the Alps. It would make the prospect of our journey homeward much pleasanter if we could count on seeing you for a few hours; and I will not believe that you will think me troublesome if I send the question to you. I am rather discontented with destiny that she has not let us see anything of you for nearly three years. And I hope you too will not be sorry to take me by the hand again.