for the coronation is over. We have talked of nothing during the last six weeks, but ermine and purple velvet. The day has been devoted to walking up and down the room, practising the stately pace with which we were to enter the abbey; and all night to dreaming that none looked so well as ourselves. Peers have been at a premium—that is, the unmarried ones; not an heiress but would have waved settlements altogether for the sake of walking in the procession. I can assure you I felt quite glad that I was married—glad for the first and last time, peut-être.
Will you believe me, dearest uncle, when I say, that there are times when I could almost wish that I loved my husband? I often feel, in spite of the perpetual gaiety in which I live, so lonely and so unvalued. One cannot always be amused, one would wish sometimes to be interested. How often have I feelings that crave for sympathy, and thoughts eager for communication! Lord Marchmont would enter as little into the feeling as he could understand the thought. Every day shews
