Mr. Caumont,

As I am sure you have correctly guessed, the past two weeks without your company have been miserable. I am writing to you from the most abject mecca of misery in my life right now, my parents' house in London. Although I will hint that my parents' house is not the only place I have been allowed to stay during my time home. However, London seems to no longer be the bright, city of promise I once thought it to be. It is nothing compared to Paris. My old acquaintances here are nothing compared to our group back at school.

Save one. I rode out to the country in the midst of a snow storm to see him and considering what you know about my dislike of the cold, winter weather, I think you can see how much his friendship means to me. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that my choice to ride out in the snow was not a sacrifice on behalf of my own warm-bloodedness, but rather viewed by me as a terrible weather condition in which to ride home, thereby justifying my spending the night. Well, I will let you think that my friend, but just know that I am writing nothing to confirm it.

Oliver is living with his sister now, which is nice, despite her house's distance from mine. His sister is a lovely young woman, truly, she is. But there is still other news.

He is engaged to be married. I can't waste the time, the paper or the ink to write to you something you can easily deduce on your own, how deeply this distresses me. The good news is, however, he is uncertain whether is current fiancée is the right choice for him. If there were a polite way for me to tell him that she is not the right choice for him, I would have. And in my foolishness, I almost did. I have not met the woman yet, but I have met her sister. Her sister is nice, playful in conversation and unfortunately rather pretty. Her family has invited Oliver and I to dinner soon to meet the fiancée. I will try to compose myself for the duration of the meal, but I guarantee I will be logging my thoughts to write to you in a (surely furious) letter. It's going to be hell, Julien. Complete and utter hell.

Speaking of complete and utter hell, how is Mr. Lafon? And Roberge and Armand, naturally? I hope that life in Paris isn't too dull without me!

Yours,
T. F.