Well, George!—dear George!—what success in your embassy?—I long to know the fate of honest Fletcher.—Is he to loll in a coach and six?—or, is the coroner's inquest to bring in their verdict Lunacy?
A sweet alternative!—As your Lordship's assiduity has shewn the former is the highest pinnacle to which you would wish to lift a friend, I believe your most sanguine hopes are here answered.
Is it so!—Well, if ever Fletcher offers up a prayer, it ought to be for you, Molesworth.
Vastly good, my Lord.—What, before he prays for himself?—This shews your Lordship's very high notions of gratitude.
We have high notions of every thing.—Bucks and bloods, as we are call'd,—you may go to the devil before you will find a set of honester fellows.
To the Devil, my Lord!—That's true, I believe.
He was going to reply when the three choice spirits came up, and hurried him, away to the Tuns.
A word to you, Darcey.—Surely you are never serious in the ridiculous design.—Not offer yourself to Miss Warley, whilst she continues in that neighbourhood?—the very spot on which you ought to secure her,—unless you think all the young fellows who visit at the Abbey are blind, except yourself.—Why, you are jealous already;—jealous of Edmund.—Perhaps even I may become one of your tormentors.—If I like her I shall as certainly tell her so, as that my name is
MOLESWORTH.
[Here two Letters are omitted, one from Lady MARY to Miss WARLEY,—and one from Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY.]