My dear Stephen, How shabbily you treat your friends – all these days without a sign of life. It is true I was horribly disagreeable when last you did me the pleasure of calling. Please forgive me. It was the east wind, or original sin, or the full moon, or something of that kind. But I have found some curious Indian butterflies – just their wings – in a book that belonged to my father. If you are not too tired, or bespoke, perhaps you might like to come and see them this evening. D. V.
