Every letter Comyn writ me was nine parts Dolly, and the rest of his sheet usually taken up with Mr. Fox and his calamities:  these had fallen upon him very thick of late.  Lord Holland had been forced to pay out a hundred thousand pounds for Charles, and even this enormous sum did not entirely free Mr. Fox from the discounters and the hounds.  The reason for this sudden onslaught was the birth of a boy to his brother Stephen, who was heir to the title.  “When they told Charles of it,” Comyn wrote, “said he, coolly:  ’My brother Ste’s son is a second Messiah, born for the destruction of the Jews.’”

I saw no definite signs, as yet, of the conversion of this prodigy, which I so earnestly hoped for.  He had quarrelled with North, lost his place on the Admiralty, and presently the King had made him a Lord of the Treasury, tho’ more out of fear than love.  Once in a while, when he saw Comyn at Almack’s, he would desire to be remembered to me, and he always spoke of me with affection.  But he could be got to write to no one, said my Lord, with kind exaggeration; nor will he receive letters, for fear he may get a dun.

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