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Updated: May 28, 2025
Not that I care very much! any way, I escape from the boy's own Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy. Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it. All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is, Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance. You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence, to see her?
Rome is better than London, because it is other than London. Vernon has been my fate; who is here the same that you knew him, Making the tour, it seems, with friends of the name of Trevellyn. Rome disappoints me still; but I shrink and adapt myself to it. Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo, Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots.
Which of three Misses Trevellyn it is that Vernon shall marry Is not a thing to be known; for our friend's is one of those natures Which have their perfect delight in the general tender-domestic, So that he trifles with Mary's shawl, ties Susan's bonnet, Dances with all, but at home is most, they say, with Georgina, Who is, however, too silly in my apprehension for Vernon.
Well, I know there are thousands as pretty and hundreds as pleasant, Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with polish Higher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary Trevellyn. Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition, Juxtaposition, in short; and what is juxtaposition? But I am in for it now, laissez faire, of a truth, laissez aller.
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