He found a letter from Cassandra waiting for him.

She had read his play, and had taken the very first opportunity to write and tell him what she thought of it.

She knew, she wrote, that her praise meant absolutely nothing; but still, she had sat up all night; she thought this, that, and the other; she was full of enthusiasm most elaborately scratched out in places, but enough was written plain to gratify William's vanity exceedingly.

She was quite intelligent enough to say the right things, or, even more charmingly, to hint at them.

In other ways, too, it was a very charming letter.