Still, no recipient _can_ be more appropriate than one who
seems to have been in fairyland herself, and to have seen, like the
'weary mariners' of old--
"Between the green brink and the running foam
White limbs unrobed to a crystal air,
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest
To little harps of gold."
"Do you ever come to London?" he asked in another letter; "if so, will
you allow me to call upon you?"
Early in the summer I came up to study, and I sent him word that I was
in town. One night, coming into my room after a long day spent at the
British Museum, in the half-light I saw a card lying on the table: "Rev.
C.L. Dodgson." Bitter, indeed, was my disappointment at having missed
him, but, just as I was laying it sadly down, I spied a small T.O. in
the corner. On the back I read that he couldn't get up to my rooms early
or late enough to find me, so would I arrange to meet him at some museum
or gallery the day but one following? I fixed the South Kensington
Museum, by the "Schliemann" collection, at twelve o'clock.
A little before twelve I was at the rendezvous, and then the humour of
the situation suddenly struck me, that I had not the ghost of an idea
what _he_ was like, nor would _he_ have any better chance of discovering
_me_! The room was fairly full of all sorts and conditions, as usual,
and I glanced at each masculine figure in turn, only to reject it as a
possibility of the one I sought.
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