“Indeed I do not at all wonder that absence, and variety of new faces, should make you forget me; but I am a little surprised at your curiosity to know what passes in my heart (a thing wholly insignificant to you), except you propose to yourself a piece of ill-natured satisfaction, in finding me very much disquieted.  Pray which way would you see into my heart?  You can frame no guesses about it from either my speaking or writing; and, supposing I should attempt to show it you, I know no other way.

“I begin to be tired of my humility:  I have carried my complaisances to you farther than I ought.  You make new scruples; you have a great deal of fancy; and your distrusts being all of your own making, are more immovable than if there was some real ground for them.  Our aunts and grandmothers always tell us that men are a sort of animals, that, if they are constant, ’tis only where they are ill used.  ’Twas a kind of paradox I could never believe:  experience has taught me the truth of it.  You are the first I ever had a correspondence with, and I thank God I have done with it for all my life.  You needed not to have told me you are not what you have been:  one must be stupid not to find a difference in your letters.  You seem, in one part of your last, to excuse yourself from having done me any injury in point of fortune.  Do I accuse you of any?

“I have not spirits to dispute any longer with you.  You say you are not yet determined:  let me determine for you, and save you the trouble of writing again.  Adieu for ever! make no answer.  I wish, among the variety of acquaintance, you may find some one to please you; and can’t help the vanity of thinking, should you try them all, you won’t find one that will be so sincere in their treatment, though a thousand more deserving, and every one happier.  ’Tis a piece of vanity and injustice I never forgive in a woman, to delight to give pain; what must I think of a man that takes pleasure in making me uneasy?  After the folly of letting you know it is in your power, I ought in prudence to let this go no farther, except I thought you had good nature enough never to make use of that power.  I have no reason to think so:  however, I am willing, you see, to do you the highest obligation ’tis possible for me to do; that is, to give you a fair occasion of being rid of me.”

There is now another break in the (preserved) correspondence until the end of February, 1711, and then Lady Mary, writing with more than a tinge of bitterness, broke off all relations with him—­or, at least, affected to do so.

“I intended to make no answer to your letter; it was something very ungrateful, and I resolved to give over all thoughts of you.  I could easily have performed that resolve some time ago, but then you took pains to please me; now you have brought me to esteem you, you make use of that esteem to give me uneasiness; and I have the displeasure of seeing I esteem a man that dislikes me.  Farewell then: