EPISTLE DEDICATORY

accusedmeofflippancy(Iamnothalfsoflippantasyou)butyourthinandmockingsmile,aftersomeremarkofmine,continuallymakesmefeelthatIhavesaidafoolishthing,thanwhichinyoureyesIknowthereisnogreatercrime....Youhavetoldmethatwhenanacquaintancehasleftapleasantrecollection,oneshouldresistthetemptationtorenewitalteredtimeandsurroundingscreatenewimpressionswhichcannotrivalwiththeold,doublyidealisedbynoveltyandabsence.Themaximishard,buttherefore,perhaps,morelikelytobetrue.Still,Icannotwishthatthefuturemaybringusnothingbetterthanforgetfulness.Itiscertainthatourpathsaredifferent,IshallbeoccupiedwithotherworkandyouwillbelosttomeinthelabyrinthofItalianhotels,whereinitpleasesyou,perversely,tohideyourlights.Iseenoprospectofreunion(thissoundsquitesentimentalandyouhateeffusiveness.Myletteriscertainlyover-fullofparentheses)butIwish,notwithstandingandwithallmyheart,thatsomedayyoumayconsenttorisktheexperiment.Whatsayyou?Iam,dearMissLey,verytruly(don’tlaughatme,Ishouldliketosay—affectionately),—Yours, W.M.