How! my dear Henrietta! he is gone! They know not whither! You fear he is in France. – And why fear it! – Ah! whether he stays, or goes abroad, what is it to me? – What interest ought I to take in it? – He is dead to me. – Yet it is sweet, however, to think he lives for no other than myself.

I am afflicted, my dear friend; I know not what I would have: Disgust and insipidity are diffused around me; the manner of living here wearies me, without dissipating my chagrin. Ruinous gaming, long repasts, a great deal of musick, little repose, continual noise, none of those calm delights I promised myself in the country. – You are sure, my Lord Ossory is no longer in town; yet, if his family is there, – one would suppose. – In France? – Why in France? – The Marchioness of Dorchester, whom he once loved, is just gone thither. – Perhaps, his passion for her is revived. – Does my Lord Castle-Cary hide nothing from you! The manner in which he writes to me, gives me suspicions. – Ah! what is all this to me? Why do I torment myself? – Lady Elizabeth begs you will send her a white domino, very genteel, that is, very much adorned. Send me one also; let it be, – my God, whatever you please: It is for a masquerade, that my Lord Wilton is to give: One is fatigued with pleasures here. – To go away without seeing Lord Castle-Cary, without endeavouring to be acquainted with you, to speak to you, – not to strive to find out where I am, to know from myself! – Strange, inconceivable creature! He appeared full of ardor: he could not live without seeing me again, without appeasing me. – To recover his heart, or to die, said he to Betty, the day that she came, all in tears, to beg I would receive his visit, and hear him! – And yet he is gone! He is gone, my dear, and has not seen my Lord Castle-Cary.