here two
days, and already I am what Tanty, in her old-fashioned way, calls
_the belle_. Already there are a dozen sparks who declare that my eyes
have _shot death_ to them. This afternoon comes my Lord of Manningham,
nicknamed _King of Bath_, to "drink a dish of tea," as he has it, with
his "dear old friend Miss O'Donoghue."

Tanty has been here three weeks, and he has only just discovered her
existence, and remembered their tender friendship. Of course, I know
very well what has really brought him. He is Lord Dereham's
grandfather on the mother's side, and Lord Dereham, who is the son of
the Duke of Wells, is "the catch," as Mrs. Hambledon vows, of the
fashionable world this year. And Lord Dereham has seen me twice, and
_is in love with me_.

But as Lord Dereham is more like a little white rat than a man, and
swears more than he converses--which would be very shocking if it were
not for his lisp, which makes it very funny--needless to say, my diary
dear, your Molly is not in love with him--He has no chance.

And so Lord Manningham comes to tea, and Tanty orders me to remain and
see her "old friend" instead of going to ride with the widow
Hambledon. The widow Hambledon and I are everywhere together, and she
knows all the most entertaining people in Bath, whereas Madeleine,
whom I have hardly seen at all except at night, when I am so dead
tired that I go to sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow (I vow
Tanty's manner of speech is catching), Miss Madeleine keeps to her own
select circle, and turns up her haughty little nose at _my_ friends.

So now Madeleine is punished, for Tanty and I have had the honour of
receiving the _King of Bath_, and I have been vouchsafed the stamp of
his august approval.

"My dear Miss O'Donoghue," he cried, as I curtsied, "do my senses
deceive me, or do I not once more behold _Murthering Moll_?"

"I thought you could not fail to notice the likeness; my niece is,
indeed, a complete O'Donoghue," says Tanty, amazingly pleased.

"Likeness, ma'am," cried the old wretch, bowing again, and scattering
his snuff all over the place, while I sweep him another splendid
curtsey, "likeness, ma'am, why this is no feeble copy, no humble
imitation, 'tis _Murdering Moll herself_, and glad I am to see her
again." And then he catches me under the chin, and peers into my face
with his dim, wicked old eyes. "And so you are Murdering Moll's
daughter," says he, chuckling to himself. "Ay, she and I were