F. Robinson’s[302] history has come to an end I think. Lady Cowper seemed very cool about him and they have not met since in London. Considering that those brothers and sisters are in all probability as little related to each other as possible, they are the most attached family I ever saw. Ever your most affectionate E. E. _Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._ GROSVENOR STREET, _November 2, 1828_. MY DEAREST THERESA, I have been rather of the longest about this letter. To be sure you set me a bright example. I thought you must have tumbled off an Alp and hurt yourself, or have been run over by an Avalanche which drove on without stopping to ask. That would have been accidental death, with a Dividend of one shilling on the Avalanche. I was very glad to get your letter with such a good account of yourself. What a nice summer you will have passed. I rather hope, whether your house is let or not, that you will squeeze out every half-penny and see as much as you can,--which, to be sure, is highly disinterested of me, because the convenience it would be to me to have you at home just now is incalculable. But you are better abroad, and then, if you come home now, there is no saying when you will be allowed to go again. It ought to have been one of the rules of the game that one might be allowed not to begin the _expenses_ of travelling again till the point where they ceased before. I mean, that as you have once paid your way to Florence, you ought to go gratis there next time, and then begin buying your freedom to Rome. We came to London last Monday, George and I having passed our whole summer at Eastcombe. He still has a great deal of business at Greenwich,[303] but is beginning to see his way through it and is, at all events, in better health and spirits. We shall probably live only part of the year at Greenwich, and there is a very nice house _in_ the park belonging to George’s office, with a little greenhouse next to it, and it may by courtesy be called a _small_ villa.[304] For my part I shall like it extremely, but George hates the idea of it so much that I say nothing. He is sure to do at last what he ought, and though he declares he can never go there, we go on very quietly buying furniture, arranging with servants, etc. You see (this is between ourselves) that rather than be bored with this business which he has taken in utter aversion, he would almost prefer giving up his office, thereby making himself uncomfortably poor. I think that’s great nonsense, and that he would repent when he had done it. Because he has met with dishonesty once, he is not more likely to meet with it again, and as he is always making business for himself, at the London University or Zoological Gardens or somewhere, he cannot want to be idle, and had better do what he is paid for, than what he is not paid for--both if he likes it. But at all events the first is the best, so I go on taking no notice, and he is recovering fast his usual activity.