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Rh and read—with a little wonder, most probably not a little vexation, at its constrained style. True it is that no first love-letter ever yet gave satisfaction to either writer or reader. Its delight is another question. When Beatrice sat down to write, it seemed the most simple thing in the world, to inform Lorraine of her arrival in Naples—it was quite another matter when the letter came really to be written. Between design and execution in such cases, a wide gulf is fixed. She drew her little table to the window, and began: "Dear Edward"—that was a great deal too familiar—she threw the sheet aside. "Dear Sir"—that was as much too formal—the second sheet followed its predecessor. Then she resolved merely to begin by some general phrase. They say Mr. Rogers takes sixteen hours and as many cups of coffee to a sentence, on the strength of which he keeps his bed for a week. Beatrice bestowed nearly as much time, and quite as much thought, on her composition. It was written on her last sheet of paper.

"Believing, as I do, that Beatrice de los Zoridos is not forgotten, I write a few brief