or.

Naughty Charles did not come on Tuesday, but good
Charles came yesterday morning. About two o'clock
he walked in on a Gosport hack. His feeling equal
to such a fatigue is a good sign, and his feeling
no fatigue in it a still better. He walked down to
Deane to dinner; he danced the whole evening, and
to-day is no more tired than a gentleman ought to
be.

Your desire to hear from me on Sunday will,
perhaps, bring you a more particular account of
the ball than you may care for, because one is
prone to think much more of such things the
morning after they happen, than when time has
entirely driven them out of one's recollection.

It was a pleasant evening; Charles found it
remarkably so, but I cannot tell why, unless the
absence of Miss Terry, towards whom his conscience
reproaches him with being now perfectly
indifferent, was a relief to him. There were only
twelve dances, of which I danced nine, and was
merely prevented from dancing the rest by the want
of a partner. We began at ten, supped at one, and
were at Deane before five. There were but fifty
people in the room; very few families indeed from
our side of the county, and not many more from the
other. My partners were the two St. Johns, Hooper,
Holder, and very prodigious Mr. Mathew, with whom
I called[115] the last, and whom I liked the best
of my little stock.

There were very few beauties, and such as there
were not very handsome. Miss Iremonger did not
look well, and Mrs. Blount was the only one much
admired. She appeared exactly as she did in
September, with the same broad face, diamond
bandeau, white shoes, pink husband, and fat neck.
The two Miss Coxes were there; I traced in one the
remains of the vulgar, broad-featured girl who
danced at Enham eight years ago; the other is
refined into a nice, composed-looking girl, like
Catherine Bigg. I looked at Sir Thomas Champneys
and thought of poor Rosalie; I looked at his
daughter, and thought her a queer animal with a
white neck.

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