‘I could tell you a great deal of news,’ he writes to Horace Mann, ’but it would not be what you would expect.  It is not of battles, sieges, and declarations of war; nor of invasions, insurrections and addresses:  it is the god of love, not he of war, who reigns in the newspapers.  The town has made up a list of six-and-thirty weddings, which I shall not catalogue to you.  But the chief entertainment has been the nuptials of our great Quixote (Carteret) and the fair Sophia.  On the point of matrimony, she fell ill of a scarlet fever, and was given over, while he had the gout, but heroically sent her word, that if she was well, he would be well.  They corresponded every day, and he used to plague the cabinet council with reading her letters to them.  Last night they were married; and as all he does must have a particular air in it, they supped at Lord Pomfret’s.  At twelve, Lady Granville (his mother) and all his family went to bed, but the porter:  then my lord went home, and waited for her in the lodge.  She came alone, in a hackney chair, met him in the hall, and was led up the back stairs to bed.  What is ridiculously lucky is, that Lord Lincoln goes into waiting to-day, and will be to present her!’

The event was succeeded by a great ball at the Duchess of Richmond’s, in honour of the bride, Lady Carteret paying her ladyship the ’highest honours,’ which she received in the ‘highest state.’  ‘I have seen her,’ adds Horace, ’but once, and found her just what I expected, tres grande dame, full of herself, and yet not with an air of happiness.  She looks ill, and is grown lean, but is still the finest figure in the world.  The mother (Lady Pomfret) is not so exalted as I expected; I fancy Carteret has kept his resolution, and does not marry her too.’

Whilst this game was being played out, one of Walpole’s most valued neighbours, Pope, was dying of dropsy, and every evening a gentle delirium possessed him.  Again does Horace return to the theme, ever in his thoughts—­the Carterets:  again does he recount their triumphs and their follies.

’I will not fail’—­still to Horace Mann—­’to make your compliments to the Pomfrets and Carterets.  I see them seldom but I am in favour; so I conclude, for my Lady Pomfret told me the other night that I said better things than anybody.  I was with them all at a subscription ball at Ranelagh last week, which my Lady Carteret thought proper to look upon as given to her, and thanked the gentlemen, who were not quite so well pleased at her condescending to take it to herself.  I did the honours of all her dress.  “How charming your ladyship’s cross is!  I am sure the design was your own!”—­“No, indeed; my lord sent it me just as it is.”  Then as much to the mother.  Do you wonder I say better things than anybody?’

But these brilliant scenes were soon mournfully ended.  Lady Sophia, the haughty, the idolized, the Juno of that gay circle, was suddenly carried off by a fever.  With real feeling Horace thus tells the tale:—­