going up to over 100 in the shade, and so I knew we should have thunder and lightning. We did have, of a sort, but utterly disappointing. Of course I went out of doors to see what would happen, but, beyond two livid sickly green flashes, all was thick pitchy darkness. So I returned a sadder and wiser woman, dripping wet. We have been enjoying the most glorious weltering simmering heat, and I am out of doors reading or rambling alone through the "lustrous woodland," or else lazily boating, the whole day. You would never have got this letter written, if it had not been for the wet day. I don't believe this place can be matched for pure natural beauty anywhere. Yesterday I went out in a boat, with two damsels. It was rough, and they were both sick and very afraid; but there was a kind of new glory over everything, the air marvellously clear, in preparation for the storm in the night I suppose: the hills all a perfect indigo blue, and masses of cloud entangled in the 'misty mountain tops.' It was a
"Glory beyond all glory ever seen
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul."
And I stood upright in the boat with my head bared, and revelled in it all—much to the disgust of the damsels in question. They shouldn't have plagued me to take them out!… I have got through two volumes of Carlyle's French Revolution, as you desired, and am much impressed and edified. There is rather a tempest going on outside, and so I am going to try to dodge my dear old daddy and Sir James, and get out my boat and enjoy it.—By-the-by, I had forgotten to tell you that an old friend and favourite of ours, Sir James Gwatkin, has been staying with us this last week. He is a most amusing mondain en villégiature, with a marvellous French and Italian accent, and altogether a very amusing companion to father, and myself at times. He knows what seems to me a great deal about Art, the Old Masters particularly. Father is far from well. The spitting is very troublesome, and now often tinged with blood. Three days ago he sent my heart into my throat and made me quite restless for the night, by breaking a blood-vessel; but he has felt far better since, he says, more free and relieved. The doctor says too that it has done him good.—But I really must go out now! Excuse this final scrawl. I have hopes of a storm to-night. Love of course from the daddy. In haste, dear Bertram,—Truly yours, Rayne Cholmeley.
'P.S.—As we're on the move I'll send you an address to send your answer to in a little. R. C.'
(The part about her standing up bare-headed in the boat thrilled me: the rest was almost interestless.)
