I’ve been wanting to write to you for some days, but so many things crowd about one in London, and even now I’ve only got a moment. But I thought that you would like to know that both my husband and myself have been to see Tony in Chelsea and that we think Janet perfectly charming. My husband was conquered by her at once; one simply cannot help loving her. She is no fool either. She is managing that house splendidly, and has got a good deal more common-sense than Tony has. Of course now you’ll say that we ought to have shown her to Sir Richard at once if he’s got to like her so much. But that isn’t so. I’m quite sure that he would never have allowed the marriage if there’d been a chance of it’s being prevented. But now he’s making the best of it, and it’s easy enough when it’s Janet. I think he feels still sore at your having “interfered,” as he calls it, but that will soon wear off and then you must come and see us. Alice Du Cane is staying with us. She has been so much improved lately, much more human; she’s really a charming girl. And meanwhile, how can I thank you enough for all that you have I done? I feel as though I owed you everything. It won’t bear talking or writing about, but I am more grateful than I can ever say. But keep an eye on Tony. He is devoted to you. He is still very young, and you can do such a lot for him. Please remember me to your wife. I am, Yours very sincerely, Lucy Gale. To James Maradick, Esq., The Elms, Epsom. On the road to Ashbourne, Derbyshire. 11 a.m. I’m sitting under a hedge with this bit of paper on my knee; dirty you’ll be thinking it, but I find that waiting for paper means no letter at all, and so it’s got to be written when the moment’s there. I’m tramping north—amongst the lakes I’m making for. It’s fine weather and a hard white road, and the show’s been going strong these last days. There’s a purple line of hills behind me, and a sky that’ll take a lot of poet’s talking to glorify it, and a little pond at the turn of the road that’s bluer than blue-bells. The new dog’s none so stupid as I thought him; not that he’s Toby, but he’s got a sense of humour on him that’s more than a basketful of intelligence. Last night I was in a fine inn with a merry company. I wish that you could have heard the talking, but you’ll have been dining with your napkin on your knee and a soft carpet at your feet. There was a fine fellow last night that had seen the devil last week walking on the high ridge that goes towards Raddlestone.