Hamilton was at a loss what countenance to put on during a narrative which raised in him nearly the same conjectures; he shrugged up his shoulders, and faintly said that appearances were often deceitful; that Lady Chesterfield had the foible of all beauties, who place their merit on the number of their admirers; and whatever airs she might imprudently have given herself, in order not to discourage his royal highness, there was no ground to suppose that she would indulge him in any greater liberties to engage him:  but in vain was it that he endeavoured to give that consolation to his friend which he did not feel himself.  Chesterfield plainly perceived he did not think of what he was saying; however, he thought himself much obliged to him for the interest he seemed to take in his concerns.

Hamilton was in haste to go home to vent his spleen and resentment in a letter to his cousin.  The style of this billet was very different from those which he formerly was accustomed to write to her:  reproaches, bitter expostulations, tenderness, menaces, and all the effusions of a lover who thinks he has reason to complain, composed this epistle; which, for fear of accidents, he went to deliver himself.

Never did she before appear so lovely, and never did her eyes speak so kindly to him as at this moment:  his heart quite relented; but he was determined not to lose all the fine things he had said in his letter.  In receiving it, she squeezed his hand:  this action completely disarmed him, and he would have given his life to have had his letter again.  It appeared to him at this instant that all the grievances he complained of were visionary and groundless:  he looked upon her husband as a madman and an impostor, and quite the reverse of what he supposed him to be a few minutes before; but this remorse came a little too late:  he had delivered his billet, and Lady Chesterfield had shewn such impatience and eagerness to read it as soon as she had got it that all circumstances seemed to conspire to justify her, and to confound him.  She managed to get quit, some way or other, of some troublesome visitors, to slip into her closet.  He thought himself so culpable that he had not the assurance to wait her return:  he withdrew with the rest of the company; but he did not dare to appear before her the next day, to have an answer to his letter:  however, he met her at court; and this was the first time, since the commencement of their amour, that he did not seek for her.  He stood at a distance, with downcast looks, and appeared in such terrible embarrassment that his condition was sufficient to raise laughter or to cause pity, when Lady Chesterfield approaching, thus accosted him:  “Confess,” said she, “that you are in as foolish a situation as any man of sense can be:  you wish you had not written to me:  you are desirous of an answer:  you hope for none:  yet you equally wish for and dread it:  I have, however, written you one.”  She had not time to say more; but the few words she