LETTER XLIV.
Miss DELVES to the same.
Barford Abbey.
Lost my heart again!—Be not surpriz'd, Madam; I lose and find it ten times a day;—yet it never strays from Barford Abbey.—The last account you had from me it was button'd inside Mr. Morgan's hunting-frock:—since that, it has been God knows with whom:—sometimes wrapt in a red coat;—sometimes in a blue;—sometimes in a green:—but finding many competitors flew to black, where it now lies snug, warm, and easy.—Restless creature! I will never take it home again.
What think you, Madam, of a Dean for a son-in-law?
What do I think? you say.—Why the gentlemen of the church have too much sense and gravity to take my madcap off my hands.—Well, Madam, but suppose the Dean of H—— now you look pleas'd.—Oh, the Dean of H——! What the Dean, Bessy, that Lady Mary used to talk of:—the Dean that married Mr. and Mrs. Powis.
As sure as I live, Madam, the very man:—and to-morrow,—to-morrow at ten, he is to unite their lovely daughter with Lord Darcey.—Am I not very good,—extremely good, indeed, to sit down and write,—when every person below is solacing themselves on the approach of this happy festival?
I would suffer shipwreck ten times;—ten times would I be drove on uninhabited islands, for such a husband as Lord Darcey.—Miss Powis's danger was only imaginary, yet she must be so rewarded.—Well, she shall be rewarded:—she ought to be rewarded:—Lord Darcey shall reward her.