Meanwhile, adieu, and if any of my tasks bore you, omit them at once, except the white roses and the Brussels veil, which Lady Jane is most anxious for.
"Sincerely yours, "Charlotte Callonby." How much did these few and apparently common-place lines convey to me?
First, my visit was not only expected, but actually looked forward to, canvassed--perhaps I might almost whisper to myself the flattery--wished for.

Again, Lady Jane's health was spoken of as precarious, less actual illness--I said to myself--than mere delicacy requiring the bluer sky and warmer airs of Italy.

Perhaps her spirits were affected--some mental malady--some ill-placed passion--que sais je?
In fact my brain run on so fast in its devisings, that by a quick process, less logical than pleasing, I satisfied myself that the lovely Lady Jane Callonby was actually in love, with whom let the reader guess at.

And Lord Callonby too, about to join the ministry--well, all the better to have one's father-in-law in power--promotion is so cursed slow now a-days.

And lastly, the sly allusion to the commissions--the mechancete of introducing her name to interest me.