erious. She is composed of systems, which she does not
understand herself; great words, great principles, great strains of
music, of which nothing remains. However, I am of your opinion, that she
is worth more than all my other acquaintances. She agrees that it would
be delightful to have you _live_ in this country; but if she were only
to see you _en passant_, it hardly matters whether you came or not; that
she has not forgotten you, but that she will forget you. Eh! Why
shouldn't she forget you? She does not know you.... A hundred speeches
of the sort which vex me.

They say of people who have too much vivacity that they were put in too
hot an oven. They might say of her, on the contrary, that she is
underdone. She is the sketch of a beautiful work, but it is not
finished. What is certain is, that her sentiments, if she has
sentiments, are sincere, and that she does not bore you. I showed her
your letter because I thought that would give you pleasure; but be sure
that no one in the world, not even she, shall see what you write me in
future except Niart [her secretary], who as you know is a well.

I have just made you a fine promise that I will not show your letters;
perhaps I shall never be able to show them. Truly, truly, I am like
Madame de Forcalquier, and do not know you!

I spent three hours with Mr. Walpole yesterday, but only half an hour
alone with him. Lord George and his wife returned his short call, but
your Dr. James stayed there all the time. He is a very gloomy,
uninteresting man.

Have you seen Jean Jacques? Is he still in London? Have you seen your
father? Imagine yourself _tete-a-tete_ with me in the corner of the
fireplace, and answer all my questions, but especially those which
concern your health. Have you seen the doctors? Have they ordered you
the waters? And tell me too, honestly, if I shall ever see you again.
Reflect that you are only twenty-five years old, that I am a hundred,
and that it only requires a brief kindness to put pleasure in my life.
No, I will not assume the pathetic. Do just what pleases you.

TO HORACE WALPOLE

TUESDAY, August 5th, 1766.

I have received your letter of July 31st--no number, sheets of different
sizes. All these observations mean nothing, unless it is that a person
without anything to do or to think occupies herself with puerile things.
Indeed, I should do very wrong not to profit by all your lessons, and to
persist in the error of believing i