There is Mr. Stanley and Mrs. Witherington; Sir H. Littleton and Mrs. Philadelphia Carey, who in earnest is a fine woman, such a one as will make an excellent wife; and some say my Lord Rich and my Lady Betty Howard, but others that pretend to know more say his court to her is but to countenance a more serious one to Mrs. Howard, her sister-in-law, he not having courage to pretend so openly (as some do) to another’s wife.  Oh, but your old acquaintance, poor Mr. Heningham, has no luck!  He was so near (as he thought at least) marrying Mrs. Gerherd that anybody might have got his whole estate in wagers upon’t that would have ventured but a reasonable proportion of their own.  And now he looks more like an ass than ever he did.  She has cast him off most unhandsomely, that’s the truth on’t, and would have tied him to such conditions as he might have been her slave withal, but could never be her husband.  Is not this a great deal of news for me that never stir abroad?  Nay, I had brought me to-day more than all this:  that I am marrying myself!  And the pleasantness on’t is that it should be to my Lord St. John.  Would he look on me, think you, that had pretty Mrs. Fretcheville?  My comfort is, I have not seen him since he was a widower, and never spoke to him in my life.  I found myself so innocent that I never blushed when they told it me.  What would I give I could avoid it when people speak of you?  In earnest, I do prepare myself all that is possible to hear it spoken of, yet for my life I cannot hear your name without discovering that I am more than ordinarily concerned in’t.  A blush is the foolishest thing that can be, and betrays one more than a red nose does a drunkard; and yet I would not so wholly have lost them as some women that I know has, as much injury as they do me.  I can assure you now that I shall be here a fortnight longer (they tell me no lodger, upon pain of his Highness’s displeasure, must remove sooner); but when I have his leave I go into Suffolk for a month, and then come hither again to go into Kent, where I intend to bury myself alive again as I did in Bedfordshire, unless you call me out and tell me I may be happy.  Alas! how fain I would hope it, but I cannot, and should it ever happen, ’twould be long before I should believe ’twas meant for me in earnest, or that ’twas other than a dream.  To say truth, I do not love to think on’t, I find so many things to fear and so few to hope.

’Tis better telling you that I will send my letters where you direct, that they shall be as long ones as possibly my time will permit, and when at any time you miss of one, I give you leave to imagine as many kind things as you please, and to believe I mean them all to you.

Farewell.