Learnt by Heart 



memory and imagination can patch up a counterfeit ot 

 reality. I fancy I hear your voice, answering the foolish 

 things I write. 



You seem to sit near me in that great old damask chair 

 whose ebony elbows are carved with lions' heads and claws, 

 where you so often sit in the library after breakfast. I see 

 the lights move on the rich, brown, wavy clusters of your 

 hair, as you look up at me, with an incredulous smile light- 

 ing the delicate transparent features, to cross-question me 

 whether I can really call up a fair familiar spirit, the double 

 of yourself. 



I see you very plainly (or let us say, very prettily) at this 

 moment. I see the stained sunlight of the library's oriel 

 flicker on the loose pleats of a longish-waisted dress, as you 

 breathe. " Come, what colour is my dress ? " you say sud- 

 denly, thinking I shall not be able to tell, on the emergency, 

 and so be exposed in a mild attempt at second sight. My 

 dear madam, I have not studied your dresses with the same 

 attention I have devoted to yourself : but your dress is grey, 

 a lightish French grey, and it has a shiny look, like poplin, 

 or something of that sort ; but I am not learned in 

 stuffs. 



But, suffice it to say, I have a general and picturesque 

 consciousness of your presence, which catches all the prin- 

 cipal points distinctly, and leaves the rest undefined. For 

 instance, I can see your chatelaine^ and your pocket-hand- 

 kerchief trimmed with Valenciennes, and I can plainly smell 

 that there is eau-de-cologne among the cambric-folds. I 

 assure you, I felt just now a distinct temporary scruple in 

 lighting my cigarillo in your presence. 



How is it in your case ? When you are reading one or 

 my letters, for instance, do you imagine me talking in the 

 genuine unmusical tones of my own voice ? — do you see me 



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