Alas, I got no message from Dorothy!  Nor had she ever mentioned my name to Comyn.  He had not seen her for eight months after I left England, as she had been taken to the Continent for her health.  She came back to London more ravishing than before, and (I use his Lordship’s somewhat extravagant language) her suffering had stamped upon her face even more of character and power.  She had lost much of her levity, likewise.  In short, my Lord declared, she was more of the queen than ever, and the mystery which hung over the Vauxhall duel had served only to add to her fame.

Dorothy having become cognizant of Mr. Marmaduke’s trickery, Chartersea seemed to have dropped out of the race.  He now spent his time very evenly between Spa and Derresley and Paris.  Hence I had so much to be thankful for,—­that with all my blunders, I had saved her from his Grace.  My Lord the Marquis of Wells was now most conspicuous amongst her suitors.  Comyn had nothing particular against this nobleman, saying that he was a good fellow, with a pretty fortune.  And here is a letter, my dears, in which he figures, that I brought to Cordon’s Pride that spring: 

                  “10 South Parade, Bath,
                    “March 12, 1774.

“Dear Richard:—­Miss Manners has come to Bath, with a train behind her longer than that which followed good Queen Anne hither, when she made this Gehenna the fashion.  Her triumphal entry last Wednesday was announced by such a peal of the abbey bells as must have cracked the metal (for they have not rung since) and started Beau Nash a-cursing where he lies under the floor.  Next came her serenade by the band.  Mr. Marmaduke swore they would never have done, and squirmed and grinned like Punch when he thought of the fee, for he had hoped to get off with a crown, I warrant you.  You should have seen his face when they would accept no fee at all for the beauty!  Some wag has writ a verse about it, which was printed, and has set the whole pump-room laughing this morning.

“She was led out by Wells in the Seasons last night.  As Spring she is too bewildering for my pen,—­all primrose and white, with the flowers in her blue-black hair.  Had Sir Joshua seen her, he would never rest content till he should have another portrait.  The Duc de Lauzun, who contrived to get two dances, might give you a description in a more suitable language than English.  And there was a prodigious deal of jealousy among the fair ones on the benches, you may be sure, and much jaundiced comment.

“Some half dozen of us adorers have a mess at the Bear, and have offered up a prize for the most appropriate toast on the beauty.  This is in competition with Mrs. Miller.  Have you not heard of her among your tobacco-hills?  Horry calls her Mrs.  ‘Calliope’ Miller.  At her place near here, Bath Easton Villa, she has set up a Roman vase bedecked with myrtle, and into