I should stop my general pattern of incivility here and pause long enough in the recitation of my own complaints to hope that yours are tolerably minor, and that you are all nicely cold. Colonel Fitzwilliam did not meet us in Milan, as planned—or as I should say—planned for the second or third time to meet us somewhere or other, only to find his letter—instead of his person—at place such-and-such, apologising for his further delay. It is very strange.

I do not wish to alarm you, but Mr. Darcy and I are both quite anxious over Georgiana’s health and spirits. She becomes quieter and more unsettled with each day, and loses weight and colour. Beyond that, I have little to relate. I have given many hints to her, by which I hoped to encourage her confidence, but have had no success. Instead, she reads to us from her collection of travellers’ books and tries to hide her unhappiness from our notice. She is quite looking forward to Venice and is rereading Udolpho by night and day, so I hope our arrival there in a few days will answer for a general improvement to her spirits. I would usually make some pun on “mysterious” here, in conjunction with having mentioned Mrs. Radcliffe, but Georgiana’s indisposition has attended her too long, and her spirits are, in general, so depressed, that the subject does not lend itself even to my ready wit; I must, therefore, resume my own complaints, which will, I hope, prove more useful.