‘Whom do you think I should find here but Griffith and his bird? I first spotted the old fellow smoking under a tree in the Grand Platz, but he looked so seedy and altered altogether that I was not sure enough of him to speak, especially as he showed no signs of knowing me. (He says it was my whiskers that stumped him.) I made inquiries and found that they figured as “Sir Peacock and lady,” but they were entered all right in the book. He is taking the “Kür”—he looks as if he wanted it—and she is taking _rouge et noir_. I saw her at the salon, with her neck grown as long as her namesake’s, but not as pretty, claws to match, thin and painted, as if the ruling passion was consuming her. Poor old Griff! he was glad enough to see me, but he is wofully shaky, and nearly came to tears when he asked after Ted and all at home. They had an upset of their carriage in Vienna last winter, and he got some twist, or other damage, which he thought nothing of, but it has never righted itself; I am sure he is very ill, and ought to be looked after. He has had only foreign doctoring, and you know he never was strong in languages. I heard of the medico here inquiring what precise symptom _der Englander_ meant by being “down in zie mout!” Poor Griff is that, whatever else he is, and Selina does not see it, nor anything else but her _rouge et noir_ table. I am afraid he plays too, when he is up to it, but he can’t stand much of the stuffiness of the place, and he respects my innocence, poor old beggar; so he has kept out of it, since we have been here. He seems glad to have me to look after him, but afraid to let me stay, for fear of my falling a victim to the place. I can’t well tell him that there is a perpetual warning to youth in the persons of himself and his Peacock. His mind might be vastly relieved if I were out of it, but scarcely his body; and I shall not leave him till I hear from home. Thomson says I am right. I should like to bring the poor old man home for advice, especially if my lady could be left behind, and by all appearances she would not object. Could not you come, or mamma? Speak to papa about it. It is all so disgusting that I really could not write to him. It is enough to break one’s heart to see Griff when he hears about home, and Edward, and Emily. I told him how famously you were getting on, and he said, “It has been all up, up with him, all down, down with me,” and then he wanted me to fix my day for leaving Baden, as if it were a sink of infection. I fancy he thinks me a mere infant still, for he won’t heed a word of advice about taking care of himself and _will_ do the most foolish things imaginable for a man in his state, though I can’t make out what is the matter with him. I tried both French and Latin with his doctor, equally in vain.’