The only bad thing in this affair is, that I cannot take the comfort of my poor friend Dabbler, by calling you a crabbed fellow, because you write with almost more kindness than ever; neither can I (though I try hard) persuade myself that you have not a grain of taste in your whole composition. This, however, seriously I do believe, that when my two daddies put their heads together to concert for me that hissing, groaning, catcalling epistle they sent me, they felt as sorry for poor little Miss Bayes as she could possibly do for herself.[100]
“QUITE WHAT WE CALL,” AND “GIVE ME LEAVE To TELL YOU.”
We had Lady Ladd at Streatham; Mr. Stephen Fuller, the sensible, but deaf old gentleman I have formerly mentioned, dined here also; as did Mr. R—,[101] whose trite, settled, tonish emptiness of discourse is a never-failing source of laughter and diversion.
“Well, I say, what, Miss Burney, so you had a very good party last Tuesday?—what we call the family party—in that sort of way? Pray who had you?”
“Mr. Chamier."[102]
“Mr. Chamier, ay? Give me leave to tell you, Miss Burney, that Mr. Chamier is what we call a very sensible man!”
“Certainly. And Mr. Pepys."[103]
“Mr. Pepys? Ay, very good—very good in that sort of way. I am quite sorry I could not be here; but I was so much indisposed—quite what we call the nursing party.”
“I'm very sorry; but I hope little Sharp[104] is well?