We went and sat in the palm place, and there was not a soul there, as every one was dancing; and I really don’t know how it happened, I was so upset about that horrid Lord Doraine, that Harry tried to comfort me, and we made up our quarrel, and—­he kissed me again—­and I hope you won’t be very cross, Mamma; but somehow I did not feel at all angry this time.  And I thought he was fond of Mrs. Smith; but it isn’t, it’s Me!  And we are engaged.  And Octavia is writing to you.  And I hope you won’t mind.  And the post is off, so no more.—­From your affectionate daughter, Elizabeth.

P.S.—­I shall get married before the Drawing Room in February, because then I can wear a tiara.

[Sidenote:  Victorine is outdone]

P.S. again.—­Of course an English marquis is higher than a French one, so I shall walk in front of Victorine anywhere, shan’t I?  E.