er sister in April, 1723. "The people I live
most with are none of your acquaintance; the Duchess of Montagu
excepted, whom I continue to see often. Her daughter Belle is at this
instant in the paradisal state of receiving visits every day from a
passionate lover, who is her first love; whom she thinks the finest
gentleman in Europe, and is, besides that, Duke of Manchester. Her mamma
and I often laugh and sigh reflecting on her felicity, the consummation
of which will be in a fortnight. In the mean time they are permitted to
be alone together every day and all the day."

Mary's very best vein is the following letter, written about the same
time, and also addressed to her sister:

"I am yet in this wicked town, but purpose to leave it as soon as the
Parliament rises. Mrs. Murray and all her satellites have so seldom
fallen in my way, I can say little about them. Your old friend Mrs.
Lowther is still fair and young, and in pale pink every night in the
Parks; but, after being highly in favour, poor I am in utter disgrace,
without my being able to guess wherefore, except she fancied me the
author or abettor of two vile ballads written on her dying adventure,
which I am so innocent of that I never saw [them]. _A propos_ of
ballads, a most delightful one is said or sung in most houses about our
dear beloved plot, which has been laid firstly to Pope, and secondly to
me, when God knows we have neither of us wit enough to make it. Mrs.
Hervey lies-in of a female child. Lady Rich is happy in dear Sir
Robert's absence, and the polite Mr. Holt's return to his allegiance,
who, though in a treaty of marriage with one of the prettiest girls in
town (Lady Jane Wharton), appears better with her than ever. Lady Betty
Manners is on the brink of matrimony with a Yorkshire Mr. Monckton of
L3,000 per annum: it is a match of the young duchess's making, and she
thinks matter of great triumph over the two coquette beauties, who can
get nobody to have and to hold; they are decayed to a piteous degree and
so neglected that they are grown constant and particular to the two
ugliest fellows in London. Mrs. Pulteney condescends to be publicly kept
by the noble Earl of Cadogan; whether Mr. Pulteney has a pad nag
deducted out of the profits for his share I cannot tell, but he appears
very well satisfied with it. This is, I think, the whole state of love;
as to that of wit, it splits itself into ten thousand branches; poets
increase and multiply t