will release you in a moment from my visitation. I have ten thousand things to say.—Will you come to my opera box Tuesday? Are you going to the masked ball Thursday? Has Mrs. Churchill sent for you to her déjeûné paré. I know she wishes, more than I can express, to have you. Perhaps you will let me drive you there. My ponies are beautiful arabians: have you seen them? Oh, by the bye, why were you not at your aunt Lady Margaret's concert? I believe it was a concert:—there was a melancholy noise in one of the rooms; but I did not attend to it.—Do you like music?"—I do; but I must own I am not one who profess to be all enchantment at the scraping of a fiddle, because some old philharmonic plays on it; nor can I admire the gurgling and groaning of a number of foreigners, because it is called singing.
"They tell me you think of nothing but love and poetry. I dare say you
