Good-night, Nesterl. I declare I am half asleep--a moment ago I was wide awake, but the thought of the admirable Clara Aarheim has set me yawning. “My domesticated daughter,” as the old countess calls her, because she has evidently given up all hope of establishing her--“my domesticated daughter” is more insipid than ever; she would do very well for a major’s wife--say a major in the infantry, who lives upon his pay. Now my young lady has renounced the world, she finds no pleasure in society--in other words, no partners. No one can endure her with her mincing ways and everlasting blushes. She bores even the count, and he is never as lively with her as with us. Only fancy, he considers her good-looking! A good-looking stick. That kind of beauty is not to my taste; it reminds me of those statues we pass by in museums, with downcast glance, when we walk along so discreetly with our mammas--poor mammas! if they only knew that we are not as demure as we look! Only fancy, the count can be satirical. He actually persuaded Clara to mount before us all, and then praised her riding to the skies. We were dying with laughter, and she looked so confused; and I, catching up a book, rushed forward, saying gravely: “Allow me to celebrate the episode in verse,” and sang: “Slow and sure, slow and sure, To guard our bones is the best cure?” Good-night, I am dead asleep; I must say my prayers in the morning. And only think, the count said to me: “You have such a charming voice, what a pity you have never taken singing lessons.” Here I went to sleep last night, my pen fell on the paper, and you will receive a letter adorned with blots. I have one thing more to tell you about the worthy Clara. You must know that she raves about the count, and took it upon herself to read me a lecture yesterday.