’My maxim in any house is—­never to despise the good opinion of the nonentities.  They are the majority.  I think they all look up to me.  But then of course you must fix that by seducing the stars.  My diplomatist praises my abilities—­Sir John Loring my style—­the rest follow and I do not withhold my smiles, and they are happy, and I should be but that for ungrateful Evan’s sake I sacrificed my peace by binding myself to a dreadful sort of half-story.  I know I did not quite say it.  It seems as if Sir A.’s ghost were going to haunt me.  And then I have the most dreadful fears that what I have done has disturbed him in the other world.  Can it be so?  It is not money or estates we took at all, dearest!  And these excellent young curates—­I almost wish it was Protestant to speak a word behind a board to them and imbibe comfort.  For after all it is nothing:  and a word even from this poor thin mopy Mr. Parsley might be relief to a poor soul in trouble.  Catholics tell you that what you do in a good cause is redeemable if not exactly right.  And you know the Catholic is the oldest Religion of the two.  I would listen to the Pope, staunch Protestant as I am, in preference to King Henry the Eighth.  Though, as a woman, I bear him no rancour, for his wives were—­ fools, point blank.  No man was ever so manageable.  My diplomatist is getting liker and liker to him every day.  Leaner, of course, and does not habitually straddle.  Whiskers and morals, I mean.  We must be silent before our prudish sister.  Not a prude?  We talk diplomacy, dearest.  He complains of the exclusiveness of the port of Oporto, and would have strict alliance between Portugal and England, with mutual privileges.  I wish the alliance, and think it better to maintain the exclusiveness.  Very trifling; but what is life!

’Adieu.  One word to leave you laughing.  Imagine her situation!  This stupid Miss Carrington has offended me.  She has tried to pump Conning, who, I do not doubt, gave her as much truth as I chose she should have in her well.  But the quandary of the wretched creature!  She takes Conning into her confidence—­a horrible malady just covered by high-neck dress!  Skin! and impossible that she can tell her engaged—­who is—­guess—­Mr. George Up------!  Her name is Louisa Carrington.  There was a Louisa Harrington once.  Similarity of names perhaps.  Of course I could not let her come to the house; and of course Miss C. is in a state of wonderment and bad passions, I fear.  I went straight to Lady Racial, my dear.  There was nothing else for it but to go and speak.  She is truly a noble woman—­serves us in every way.  As she should!—­much affected by sight of Evan, and keeps aloof from Beckley Court.  The finger of Providence is in all.  Adieu! but do pray think of Miss Carrington!  It was foolish of her to offend me.  Drives and walks-the Duke attentive.  Description of him when I embrace you.  I give amiable Sir Franks Portuguese dishes.  Ah, my dear, if we had none but men to contend against, and only women for our tools!  But this is asking for the world, and nothing less.