NARRATIVE.

In March of this year Charles Dickens went with his wife for two or three weeks to Brighton, accompanied by Mrs. Macready, who was in delicate health, and we give a letter to Mr. Macready from Brighton.  Early in the year, “Dombey and Son” was finished, and he was again busy with an amateur play, with the same associates and some new adherents; the proceeds being, at first, intended to go towards the curatorship of Shakespeare’s house, which post was to be given to Mr. Sheridan Knowles.  The endowment was abandoned, upon the town and council of Stratford-on-Avon taking charge of the house; the large sum realised by the performances being handed over to Mr. Sheridan Knowles.  The play selected was “The Merry Wives of Windsor;” the farce, “Love, Law, and Physic.”  There were two performances at the Haymarket in April, at one of which her Majesty and the Prince Consort were present; and in July there were performances at Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Edinburgh, and Glasgow.  Some ladies accompanied the “strollers” on this theatrical provincial tour, and Mrs. Dickens and her sister were of the party.  Many of the following letters bear reference to these plays.

In this summer, his eldest sister Fanny (Mrs. Burnett) died, and there are sorrowful allusions to her illness in several of the letters.

The autumn months were again spent at Broadstairs, where he wrote “The Haunted Man,” which was illustrated by Mr. Frank Stone, Mr. Leech, and others.  At the end of the year and at the end of his work, he took another short holiday at Brighton with his wife and sister-in-law; and the letters to Mr. Stone on the subject of his illustrations to “The Haunted Man” are written from Brighton.  The first letters which we have to Mr. Mark Lemon come here.  We regret to have been unable to procure any letters addressed to Mr. Leech, with whom, as with Mr. Lemon, Charles Dickens was very intimately associated for many years.

Also, we have the beginning of his correspondence with Mr. Charles Kent.  He wrote (an unusual thing for him to do) to the editor of The Sun newspaper, begging him to thank the writer of a particularly sympathetic and earnest review of “Dombey and Son,” which appeared in The Sun at the close of the book.  Mr. Charles Kent replied in his proper person, and from that time dates a close friendship and constant correspondence.

With the letter to Mr. Forster we give, as a note, a letter which Baron Tauechnitz published in his edition of Mr. Forster’s “Life of Oliver Goldsmith.”

Mr. Peter Cunningham, as an important member of the “Shakespeare’s House” committee, managed the un-theatrical part of this Amateur Provincial Tour, and was always pleasantly connected with the plays.

The book alluded to in the last letter for this year, to be dedicated to Charles Dickens’s daughters by Mr. Mark Lemon, was called “The Enchanted Doll.”

Mr. Charles Babbage

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, February 26th, 1848.

MY DEAR SIR,

Pray let me thank you for your pamphlet.

I confess that I am one of the unconvinced grumblers, and that I doubt the present or future existence of any government in England, strong enough to convert the people to your income-tax principles.  But I do not the less appreciate the ability with which you advocate them, nor am I the less gratified by any mark of your remembrance.

Faithfully yours always.

Mr. W. C. Macready

JUNCTION HOUSE, BRIGHTON, March 2nd, 1848.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

We have migrated from the Bedford and come here, where we are very comfortably (not to say gorgeously) accommodated.  Mrs. Macready is certainly better already, and I really have very great hopes that she will come back in a condition so blooming, as to necessitate the presentation of a piece of plate to the undersigned trainer.

You mean to come down on Sunday and on Sunday week.  If you don’t, I shall immediately take the Victoria, and start Mr. ­, of the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, as a smashing tragedian.  Pray don’t impose upon me this cruel necessity.

I think Lamartine, so far, one of the best fellows in the world; and I have lively hopes of that great people establishing a noble republic.  Our court had best be careful not to overdo it in respect of sympathy with ex-royalty and ex-nobility.  Those are not times for such displays, as, it strikes me, the people in some of our great towns would be apt to express pretty plainly.

However, we’ll talk of all this on these Sundays, and Mr. ­ shall not be raised to the pinnacle of fame.

Ever affectionately yours,
My dear Macready.

Editor of The Sun

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, YORK GATE, REGENT’S PARK,
Friday, April 14th, 1848.

Private.

Mr. Charles Dickens presents his compliments to the Editor of The Sun, and begs that gentleman will have the goodness to convey to the writer of the notice of “Dombey and Son,” in last evening’s paper, Mr. Dickens’s warmest acknowledgments and thanks.  The sympathy expressed in it is so very earnestly and unaffectedly stated, that it is particularly welcome and gratifying to Mr. Dickens, and he feels very desirous indeed to convey that assurance to the writer of that frank and genial farewell.

Mr. W. Charles M. Kent

1, DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, YORK GATE, REGENT’S PARK,
April 18th, 1848.

DEAR SIR,

Pray let me repeat to you personally what I expressed in my former note, and allow me to assure you, as an illustration of my sincerity, that I have never addressed a similar communication to anybody except on one occasion.

Faithfully yours.

Mr. John Forster

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Saturday, April 22nd, 1848.

MY DEAR FORSTER,

I finished Goldsmith yesterday, after dinner, having read it from the first page to the last with the greatest care and attention.

As a picture of the time, I really think it impossible to give it too much praise.  It seems to me to be the very essence of all about the time that I have ever seen in biography or fiction, presented in most wise and humane lights, and in a thousand new and just aspects.  I have never liked Johnson half so well.  Nobody’s contempt for Boswell ought to be capable of increase, but I have never seen him in my mind’s eye half so plainly.  The introduction of him is quite a masterpiece.  I should point to that, if I didn’t know the author, as being done by somebody with a remarkably vivid conception of what he narrated, and a most admirable and fanciful power of communicating it to another.  All about Reynolds is charming; and the first account of the Literary Club and of Beauclerc as excellent a piece of description as ever I read in my life.  But to read the book is to be in the time.  It lives again in as fresh and lively a manner as if it were presented on an impossibly good stage by the very best actors that ever lived, or by the real actors come out of their graves on purpose.

And as to Goldsmith himself, and his life, and the tracing of it out in his own writings, and the manful and dignified assertion of him without any sobs, whines, or convulsions of any sort, it is throughout a noble achievement, of which, apart from any private and personal affection for you, I think (and really believe) I should feel proud, as one who had no indifferent perception of these books of his ­to the best of my remembrance ­when little more than a child.  I was a little afraid in the beginning, when he committed those very discouraging imprudences, that you were going to champion him somewhat indiscriminately; but I very soon got over that fear, and found reason in every page to admire the sense, calmness, and moderation with which you make the love and admiration of the reader cluster about him from his youth, and strengthen with his strength ­and weakness too, which is better still.

I don’t quite agree with you in two small respects.  First, I question very much whether it would have been a good thing for every great man to have had his Boswell, inasmuch as I think that two Boswells, or three at most, would have made great men extraordinarily false, and would have set them on always playing a part, and would have made distinguished people about them for ever restless and distrustful.  I can imagine a succession of Boswells bringing about a tremendous state of falsehood in society, and playing the very devil with confidence and friendship.  Secondly, I cannot help objecting to that practice (begun, I think, or greatly enlarged by Hunt) of italicising lines and words and whole passages in extracts, without some very special reason indeed.  It does appear to be a kind of assertion of the editor over the reader ­almost over the author himself ­which grates upon me.  The author might almost as well do it himself to my thinking, as a disagreeable thing; and it is such a strong contrast to the modest, quiet, tranquil beauty of “The Deserted Village,” for instance, that I would almost as soon hear “the town crier” speak the lines.  The practice always reminds me of a man seeing a beautiful view, and not thinking how beautiful it is half so much as what he shall say about it.

In that picture at the close of the third book (a most beautiful one) of Goldsmith sitting looking out of window at the Temple trees, you speak of the “gray-eyed” rooks.  Are you sure they are “gray-eyed”?  The raven’s eye is a deep lustrous black, and so, I suspect, is the rook’s, except when the light shines full into it.

I have reserved for a closing word ­though I don’t mean to be eloquent about it, being far too much in earnest ­the admirable manner in which the case of the literary man is stated throughout this book.  It is splendid.  I don’t believe that any book was ever written, or anything ever done or said, half so conducive to the dignity and honour of literature as “The Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith,” by J. F., of the Inner Temple.  The gratitude of every man who is content to rest his station and claims quietly on literature, and to make no feint of living by anything else, is your due for evermore.  I have often said, here and there, when you have been at work upon the book, that I was sure it would be; and I shall insist on that debt being due to you (though there will be no need for insisting about it) as long as I have any tediousness and obstinacy to bestow on anybody.  Lastly, I never will hear the biography compared with Boswell’s except under vigorous protest.  For I do say that it is mere folly to put into opposite scales a book, however amusing and curious, written by an unconscious coxcomb like that, and one which surveys and grandly understands the characters of all the illustrious company that move in it.

My dear Forster, I cannot sufficiently say how proud I am of what you have done, or how sensible I am of being so tenderly connected with it.  When I look over this note, I feel as if I had said no part of what I think; and yet if I were to write another I should say no more, for I can’t get it out.  I desire no better for my fame, when my personal dustiness shall be past the control of my love of order, than such a biographer and such a critic.  And again I say, most solemnly, that literature in England has never had, and probably never will have, such a champion as you are, in right of this book.

Ever affectionately.

Mr. Mark Lemon

Wednesday, May 3rd, 1848.

MY DEAR LEMON,

Do you think you could manage, before we meet to-morrow, to get from the musical director of the Haymarket (whom I don’t know) a note of the overtures he purposes playing on our two nights?  I am obliged to correct and send back the bill proofs to-morrow (they are to be brought to Miss Kelly’s) ­and should like, for completeness’ sake, to put the music in.  Before “The Merry Wives,” it must be something Shakespearian.  Before “Animal Magnetism,” something very telling and light ­like “Fra Diavolo.”

Wednesday night’s music in a concatenation accordingly, and jolly little polkas and quadrilles between the pieces, always beginning the moment the act-drop is down.  If any little additional strength should be really required in the orchestra, so be it.

Can you come to Miss Kelly’s by three?  I should like to show you bills, tickets, and so forth, before they are worked.  In order that they may not interfere with or confuse the rehearsal, I have appointed Peter Cunningham to meet me there at three, instead of half-past.

Faithfully ever.

P.S. ­If you should be disposed to chop together early, send me a line to the Athenaeum.  I have engaged to be with Barry at ten, to go over the Houses of Parliament.  When I have done so, I will go to the club on the chance of a note from you, and would meet you where you chose.

Rev. James White

ATHENAEUM, Thursday, May 4th, 1848.

MY DEAR WHITE,

I have not been able to write to you until now.  I have lived in hope that Kate and I might be able to run down to see you and yours for a day, before our design for enforcing the Government to make Knowles the first custodian of the Shakespeare house should come off.  But I am so perpetually engaged in drilling the forces, that I see no hope of making a pleasant expedition to the Isle of Wight until about the twentieth.  Then I shall hope to do so for one day.  But of this I will advise you further, in due course.

My doubts about the house you speak of are twofold, First, I could not leave town so soon as May, having affairs to arrange for a sick sister.  And secondly, I fear Bonchurch is not sufficiently bracing for my chickens, who thrive best in breezy and cool places.  This has set me thinking, sometimes of the Yorkshire coast, sometimes of Dover.  I would not have the house at Bonchurch reserved for me, therefore.  But if it should be empty, we will go and look at it in a body.  I reserve the more serious part of my letter until the last, my dear White, because it comes from the bottom of my heart.  None of your friends have thought and spoken oftener of you and Mrs. White than we have these many weeks past.  I should have written to you, but was timid of intruding on your sorrow.  What you say, and the manner in which you tell me I am connected with it in your recollection of your dear child, now among the angels of God, gives me courage to approach your grief ­to say what sympathy we have felt with it, and how we have not been unimaginative of these deep sources of consolation to which you have had recourse.  The traveller who journeyed in fancy from this world to the next was struck to the heart to find the child he had lost, many years before, building him a tower in heaven.  Our blessed Christian hopes do not shut out the belief of love and remembrance still enduring there, but irradiate it and make it sacred.  Who should know that better than you, or who more deeply feel the touching truths and comfort of that story in the older book, where, when the bereaved mother is asked, “Is it well with the child?” she answers, “It is well.”

God be with you.  Kate and her sister desire their kindest love to yourself and Mrs. White, in which I heartily join.

Being ever, my dear White,
Your affectionate Friend.

Mr. W. C. Macready.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Wednesday, May 10th, 1848.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

We are rehearsing at the Haymarket now, and Lemon mentioned to me yesterday that Webster had asked him if he would sound Forster or me as to your intention of having a farewell benefit before going to America, and whether you would like to have it at the Haymarket, and also as to its being preceded by a short engagement there.  I don’t know what your feelings may be on this latter head, but thinking it well that you may know how the land lies in these seas, send you this; the rather (excuse Elizabethan phrase, but you know how indispensable it is to me under existing circumstances) ­the rather that I am thereto encouraged by thy consort, who has just come a-visiting here, with thy fair daughters, Mistress Nina and the little Kate.  Wherefore, most selected friend, perpend at thy leisure, and so God speed thee!

And no more at present from,
Thine ever.

From my tent in my garden.

ANOTHER “BOBADIL” NOTE.

I must tell you this, sir, I am no general man; but for William Shakespeare’s sake (you may embrace it at what height of favour you please) I will communicate with you on the twenty-first, and do esteem you to be a gentleman of some parts ­of a good many parts in truth.  I love few words.

At Cobb’s, a water-bearer,
October 11th.

Mr. Peter Cunningham.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Thursday Morning, June 22nd, 1848.

MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM,

I will be at Miss Kelly’s to-morrow evening, from seven to eight, and shall hope to see you there, for a little conversation, touching the railroad arrangements.

All preparations completed in Edinburgh and Glasgow.  There will be a great deal of money taken, especially at the latter place.

I wish I could persuade you, seriously, to come into training for Nym, in “The Merry Wives.”  He is never on by himself, and all he has to do is good, without being difficult.  If you could screw yourself up to the doing of that part in Scotland, it would prevent our taking some new man, and would cover you (all over) with glory.

Faithfully yours always.

P.S. ­I am fully persuaded that an amateur manager has more correspondence than the Home Secretary.

The Hon. Mrs. Watson.

1, DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, REGENT’S PARK,
July 27th, 1848.

MY DEAR MRS. WATSON,

I thought to have been at Rockingham long ago!  It seems a century since I, standing in big boots on the Haymarket stage, saw you come into a box upstairs and look down on the humbled Bobadil, since then I have had the kindest of notes from you, since then the finest of venison, and yet I have not seen the Rockingham flowers, and they are withering I daresay.

But we have acted at Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Edinburgh, and Glasgow; and the business of all this ­and graver and heavier daily occupation in going to see a dying sister at Hornsey ­has so worried me that I have hardly had an hour, far less a week.  I shall never be quite happy, in a theatrical point of view, until you have seen me play in an English version of the French piece, “L’Homme Blase,” which fairly turned the head of Glasgow last Thursday night as ever was; neither shall I be quite happy, in a social point of view, until I have been to Rockingham again.  When the first event will come about Heaven knows.  The latter will happen about the end of the November fogs and wet weather.  For am I not going to Broadstairs now, to walk about on the sea-shore (why don’t you bring your rosy children there?) and think what is to be done for Christmas!  An idea occurs to me all at once.  I must come down and read you that book before it’s published.  Shall it be a bargain?  Were you all in Switzerland?  I don’t believe I ever was.  It is such a dream now.  I wonder sometimes whether I ever disputed with a Haldimand; whether I ever drank mulled wine on the top of the Great St. Bernard, or was jovial at the bottom with company that have stolen into my affection; whether I ever was merry and happy in that valley on the Lake of Geneva, or saw you one evening (when I didn’t know you) walking down among the green trees outside Elysee, arm-in-arm with a gentleman in a white hat.  I am quite clear that there is no foundation for these visions.  But I should like to go somewhere, too, and try it all over again.  I don’t know how it is, but the ideal world in which my lot is cast has an odd effect on the real one, and makes it chiefly precious for such remembrances.  I get quite melancholy over them sometimes, especially when, as now, those great piled-up semicircles of bright faces, at which I have lately been looking ­all laughing, earnest and intent ­have faded away like dead people.  They seem a ghostly moral of everything in life to me.

Kate sends her best love, in which Georgy would as heartily unite, I know, but that she is already gone to Broadstairs with the children.  We think of following on Saturday morning, but that depends on my poor sister.  Pray give my most cordial remembrances to Watson, and tell him they include a great deal.  I meant to have written you a letter.  I don’t know what this is.  There is no word for it.  So, if you will still let me owe you one, I will pay my debt, on the smallest encouragement, from the seaside.  Here, there, and elsewhere, I am, with perfect truth, believe me,

Very faithfully yours.

Mr. W. C. Macready.

BROADSTAIRS, KENT, Saturday, August 26th, 1848.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

I was about to write to you when I received your welcome letter.  You knew I should come from a somewhat longer distance than this to give you a hearty God-speed and farewell on the eve of your journey.  What do you say to Monday, the fourth, or Saturday, the second?  Fix either day, let me know which suits you best ­at what hour you expect the Inimitable, and the Inimitable will come up to the scratch like a man and a brother.

Permit me, in conclusion, to nail my colours to the mast.  Stars and stripes are so-so ­showy, perhaps; but my colours is THE UNION JACK, which I am told has the remarkable property of having braved a thousand years the battle AND the breeze.  Likewise, it is the flag of Albion ­the standard of Britain; and Britons, as I am informed, never, never, never ­will ­be ­slaves!

My sentiment is:  Success to the United States as a golden campaigning ground, but blow the United States to ’tarnal smash as an Englishman’s place of residence.  Gentlemen, are you all charged?

Affectionately ever.

Miss Dickens

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Friday, Septh, 1848.

MY DEAREST MAMEY,

We shall be very glad to see you all again, and we hope you will be very glad to see us.  Give my best love to dear Katey, also to Frankey, Alley, and the Peck.

I have had a nice note from Charley just now.  He says it is expected at school that when Walter puts on his jacket, all the Miss Kings will fall in love with him to desperation and faint away.

Ever, my dear Mamey,
Most affectionately yours.

Mr. Effingham William Wilson.

1, DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, YORK GATE, REGENT’S PARK,
Noth, 1848.

“A NATIONAL THEATRE.”

SIR,

I beg you to accept my best thanks for your pamphlet and your obliging note.  That such a theatre as you describe would be but worthy of this nation, and would not stand low upon the list of its instructors, I have no kind of doubt.  I wish I could cherish a stronger faith than I have in the probability of its establishment on a rational footing within fifty years.

Faithfully yours.

Mr. Frank Stone

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Tuesday, Nost, 1848.

MY DEAR STONE,

I send you herewith the second part of the book, which I hope may interest you.  If you should prefer to have it read to you by the Inimitable rather than to read it, I shall be at home this evening (loin of mutton at half-past five), and happy to do it.  The proofs are full of printers’ errors, but with the few corrections I have scrawled upon it, you will be able to make out what they mean.

I send you, on the opposite side, a list of the subjects already in hand from this second part.  If you should see no other in it that you like (I think it important that you should keep Milly, as you have begun with her), I will, in a day or two, describe you an unwritten subject for the third part of the book.

Ever faithfully.

SUBJECTS IN HAND FOR THE SECOND PART.

1.  Illuminated page.  Tenniel.  Representing Redlaw going upstairs, and the Tetterby family below.

2.  The Tetterby supper.  Leech.

3.  The boy in Redlaw’s room, munching his food and staring at the fire.

BRIGHTON, Thursday Night, Nord, 1848.

MY DEAR STONE,

We are unanimous.

The drawing of Milly on the chair is CHARMING.  I cannot tell you how much the little composition and expression please me.  Do that, by all means.

I fear she must have a little cap on.  There is something coming in the last part, about her having had a dead child, which makes it yet more desirable than the existing text does that she should have that little matronly sign about her.  Unless the artist is obdurate indeed, and then he’ll do as he likes.

I am delighted to hear that you have your eye on her in the students’ room.  You will really, pictorially, make the little woman whom I love.

Kate and Georgy send their kindest remembrances.  I write hastily to save the post.

Ever, my dear Stone,
Faithfully yours.

BEDFORD HOTEL, BRIGHTON, Monday Night, Noth, 1848.

MY DEAR STONE,

You are a TRUMP, emphatically a TRUMP, and such are my feelings towards you at this moment that I think (but I am not sure) that if I saw you about to place a card on a wrong pack at Bibeck (?), I wouldn’t breathe a word of objection.

Sir, there is a subject I have written to-day for the third part, that I think and hope will just suit you.  Scene, Tetterby’s.  Time, morning.  The power of bringing back people’s memories of sorrow, wrong and trouble, has been given by the ghost to Milly, though she don’t know it herself.  As she comes along the street, Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby recover themselves, and are mutually affectionate again, and embrace, closing rather a good scene of quarrel and discontent.  The moment they do so, Johnny (who has seen her in the distance and announced her before, from which moment they begin to recover) cries “Here she is!” and she comes in, surrounded by the little Tetterbys, the very spirit of morning, gladness, innocence, hope, love, domesticity, etc. etc. etc. etc.

I would limit the illustration to her and the children, which will make a fitness between it and your other illustrations, and give them all a character of their own.  The exact words of the passage I endorsed on another slip of paper.  Note.  There are six boy Tetterbys present (young ’Dolphus is not there), including Johnny; and in Johnny’s arms is Moloch, the baby, who is a girl.  I hope to be back in town next Monday, and will lose no time in reporting myself to you.  Don’t wait to send me the drawing of this.  I know how pretty she will be with the children in your hands, and should be a stupendous jackass if I had any distrust of it.

The Duke of Cambridge is staying in this house, and they are driving me mad by having Life Guards bands under our windows, playing our overtures!  I have been at work all day, and am going to wander into the theatre, where (for the comic man’s benefit) “two gentlemen of Brighton” are performing two counts in a melodrama.  I was quite addle-headed for the time being, and think an amateur or so would revive me.  No ’Tone!  I don’t in the abstract approve of Brighton.  I couldn’t pass an autumn here; but it is a gay place for a week or so; and when one laughs and cries, and suffers the agitation that some men experience over their books, it’s a bright change to look out of window, and see the gilt little toys on horseback going up and down before the mighty sea, and thinking nothing of it.

Kate’s love and Georgy’s.  They say you’ll contradict every word of this letter.

Faithfully ever.

[SLIP OF PAPER ENCLOSED.]

“Hurrah! here’s Mrs. Williams!” cried Johnny.

So she was, and all the Tetterby children with her; and as she came in, they kissed her and kissed one another, and kissed the baby and kissed their father and mother, and then ran back and flocked and danced about her, trooping on with her in triumph.

(After which, she is going to say:  “What, are you all glad to see me too!  Oh, how happy it makes me to find everyone so glad to see me this bright morning!”)

Mr. Mark Lemon.

BEDFORD HOTEL, BRIGHTON, Noth, 1848.

MY DEAR MARK,

I assure you, most unaffectedly and cordially, that the dedication of that book to Mary and Kate (not Catherine) will be a real delight to me, and to all of us.  I know well that you propose it in “affectionate regard,” and value and esteem it, therefore, in a way not easy of expression.

You were talking of “coming” down, and now, in a mean and dodging way, you write about “sending” the second act!  I have a propogician to make.  Come down on Friday.  There is a train leaves London Bridge at two ­gets here at four.  By that time I shall be ready to strike work.  We can take a little walk, dine, discuss, and you can go back in good time next morning.  I really think this ought to be done, and indeed MUST be done.  Write and say it shall be done.

A little management will be required in dramatising the third part, where there are some things I describe (for effect’s sake, and as a matter of art) which must be said on the stage.  Redlaw is in a new condition of mind, which fact must be shot point-blank at the audience, I suppose, “as from the deadly level of a gun.”  By anybody who knew how to play Milly, I think it might be made very good.  Its effect is very pleasant upon me.  I have also given Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby another innings.

I went to the play last night ­fifth act of Richard the Third.  Richmond by a stout lady, with a particularly well-developed bust, who finished all the speeches with the soubrette simper.  Also, at the end of the tragedy she came forward (still being Richmond) and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, on Wednesday next the entertainments will be for My benefit, when I hope to meet your approbation and support.”  Then, having bowed herself into the stage-door, she looked out of it, and said, winningly, “Won’t you come?” which was enormously applauded.

Ever affectionately.