7.  I was this morning to give the Duke of Ormond notice of the honour done him to make him one of our Society, and to invite him on Thursday next to the Thatched House:  he has accepted it with the gratitude and humility such a preferment deserves, but cannot come till the next meeting, because Prince Eugene is to dine with him that day, which I allowed for:  a good excuse, and will report accordingly.  I dined with Lord Masham, and sat there till eight this evening, and came home, because I was not very well, but a little griped; but now I am well again, I will not go, at least but very seldom, to Lord Masham’s suppers.  Lord Treasurer is generally there, and that tempts me, but late sitting up does not agree with me:  there’s the short and the long, and I won’t do it; so take your answer, dear little young women; and I have no more to say to you to-night, because of the Archbishop, for I am going to write a long letter to him, but not so politely as formerly:  I won’t trust him.

8.  Well, then, come, let us see this letter; if I must answer it, I must.  What’s here now? yes, faith, I lamented my birthday[9] two days after, and that’s all:  and you rhyme, Madam Stella; were those verses made upon my birthday? faith, when I read them, I had them running in my head all the day, and said them over a thousand times; they drank your health in all their glasses, and wished, etc.  I could not get them out of my head.  What? no, I believe it was not; what do I say upon the eighth of December?  Compare, and see whether I say so.  I am glad of Mrs. Stoyte’s recovery, heartily glad; your Dolly Manley’s and Bishop of Cloyne’s[10] child I have no concern about:  I am sorry in a civil way, that’s all.  Yes, yes, Sir George St. George dead.[11]—­Go, cry, Madam Dingley; I have written to the Dean.  Raymond will be rich, for he has the building itch.  I wish all he has got may put him out of debt.  Poh, I have fires like lightning; they cost me twelvepence a week, beside small coal.  I have got four new caps, madam, very fine and convenient, with striped cambric, instead of muslin; so Patrick need not mend them, but take the old ones.  Stella snatched Dingley’s word out of her pen; Presto a cold?  Why, all the world here is dead with them:  I never had anything like it in my life; ’tis not gone in five weeks.  I hope Leigh is with you before this, and has brought your box.  How do you like the ivory rasp?  Stella is angry; but I’ll have a finer thing for her.  Is not the apron as good?  I’m sure I shall never be paid it; so all’s well again.—­What? the quarrel with Sir John Walter?[12] Why, we had not one word of quarrel; only he railed at me when I was gone:  and Lord Keeper and Treasurer teased me for a week.  It was nuts to them; a serious thing with a vengeance.—­The Whigs may sell their estates then, or hang themselves, as they are disposed; for a peace there will be.  Lord Treasurer told me that Connolly[13] was going to Hanover.