One gets agreeable us’d to being without a man

Sure 'tis time I went hold a soirée: and perchance do I so, 'twill not be so dramatique as the last one. I therefore go write little notes to Mrs O’C- and to Mr G- D-, the devot’d ladies, Signor V-, &C.

I am about my correspondence one morn when comes Mrs O’C- to call. O, she says, what a fine time her boy had at the F-s’ party for the young people. Sure he can hardly stop talking about it, and that he saw the wombatt and the badger and Josh F- let him hold a ferret.

Celeste comes with coffee and shortbreads.

And, she says, she is entire delight’d to be of service taking banque at my soirée, but indeed, I need not be at the trouble of inviting Mr Miles O’N-. Sure he is a charming enough fellow, but she confides that he is a sad rogue, that goes about telling all of these fine horses that none has ever seen. Sure even are there horses upon his fine estate in Ireland, she doubts they are all he cries them up to be.

Why, says I, I have been like to wonder about that. 'Tis a considerable while he has been on these shores, and I would suppose that to raise fine horses one would need to give them more attention, even does one have an excellent head groom &C. (For I cannot suppose that Belinda and Captain P- would leave their fine place in Northamptonshire for so long: or at least, one or 'tother would remain.)

I marry’d one beguiling rogue, says Mrs O'C- with an expression of some bitterness, that was a fine hand at charming the gold out of other people’s pockets, but not in the least given to earning it -

Sure, she goes on, Mr P- is not the chearyest of fellows, indeed, a grumpy creature, but will go sit at his desk with a deal of sighing and write for hours together, has a deal of application, would scorn to take money that was not his.

But I begin to think that Miles O’N- is of that former kind, and comes to England to sell horses as 'twere in a poke, and to see can he find a wife that he can live on, the wretch. Indeed, I would not give my boy such a father-in-law.

I am sure you are wise, says I. I daresay he goes appeal to your happy memories of youthfull days –

Indeed he does! But one would hope a fellow had made something of himself by his years.

One would hope so indeed, says I. But I will not invite him – sure I have heard he goes about Society quite horse-coping, 'tis exceeding poor ton, and not the behaviour one would like among one’s guests.

Has he made any suit to you? she asks.

Why, says I, I confide that 'tis still suppos’d about Society that Lord G- R- retains an interest, and I daresay Mr O’N- would not care to face a challenge.

O, indeed, says Mrs O’C-, he may take warning by what we see with Lord A-.

O? says I as if idly, and Mrs O’C- goes recount some encounter at which Milord went almost to give the cut direct to Lord A-, show’d very chill and formal.

O, poo, says I, sure Lord A- has show’d civil to me a time or two in Society, but can it really be that Society expects the banns call’d any Sunday now – or mayhap that he goes to the archbishop for a special license? Well, gossip will make much out of very little.

Mrs O’C- looks a little sceptical, and I daresay wonders if the lady doth protest too much. But she then goes on to say that another mark against Mr O’N- is that she never sees him at Mass, and dares say he has not been to confession these many months. 'Tis no example to set.

I say perchance 'tis just that he is a most feckless fellow - he is that, she remarks – but that I daresay one might go about to discover what the position might be.

No, she says, she is determin’d to have no mind to him, she does not require to know for certain that the fine estate he boasts upon is barren scrub with a broke-down nag or two upon it.

Sure, says I, did you desire return to your native soil, I confide that there are fellows that seek special pleasures there and would provide you a fine living in Dublin.

She looks thoughtfull.

After she has gone I consider over what she has told me. Indeed I have been like to suppose that Mr Miles O’N- hangs out for a well-endow’d wife, and I have been in some concern that he has gone make exceeding pleasant to Agnes S-, praising her horsewomanship &C. Tho’ I do not think she shows any particular inclination towards him.

I return to my correspondence. I am in some intention to go make calls, once I am like to feel I have been dutyfull enough over writing letters – tho’ sure, I had rather be about writing a tale or so.

But I am just sitting up and stretching myself when comes Hector to say Mrs D- K- comes call.

Why, says I, send her in. For I know not why she comes calling and wish to find out.

She comes in and I wave her to a chair beside the fire, for she looks chill’d. Celeste comes with tea, and shortbreads, that I confide are left from the morn’s baking.

(I hope Mrs D- K- has not come inform me she has just murder’d the dreadfull crocodile.)

How now, says I, how do you?

She sighs and says, why, she has not kill’d the old b---h yet; sure Lady W- is very forebearing that she has not done so. For they went to Somerset and the old lady goes spoil her grandchildren by interfering with anything their mama and papa say, and indeed behaves as if they had been hatcht from eggs rather than having a mother. And now they are return’d to Town the old b---h comes with 'em, for she will not go moulder in Somerset while 'tis the Season.

Indeed, says I, has long been her practice, but the high living quite shortly goes affect her liver and she will be about taking the waters somewhere.

Shall be extreme glad to leave Town, says Mrs D- K-.

Oh? says I, with my listening face.

She sighs. In Town I cannot help but run across fellows that were in my husband’s set. And there are those that look at me with a little sneer; and then there are those that make more pleasant and then go offer me carte blanche.

And you do not incline to any of 'em?

Sure, she says in drear tones, one gets agreeable us’d to being without a man (I mind me that her late husband was a foul-temper’d brute): but I daresay in time I may bring myself to it.

Why, says I, I confide Mr MacD- will have writ to you that once the debts he has compound’d for are clear’d, you should have a little in the way of an income.

He has gone to a deal of trouble on my behalf, she says with a frown.

(I do not think she will understand do I say that Sandy regards such matters in the light of a puzzle he may solve and that he finds enjoyment in it.)

'Tis best that these matters do not remain in a tangle, says I.

She gives a great sigh and rubs her face with her hands. As for tangles, she says, and then falls silent.

I remain silent myself to see if she will speak further.

Have you lately seen Mr W- Y-? she asks at length.

Not very lately, says I, he has not been as much about in Society as was wont. (Which I daresay is to do with this new freak of his of laughing-gas visions.)

Only lately came visit me, and askt did I still move among your set, and that there are those that would be very interest’d to know what went forth among you –

La, says I, is he reduc’d to going sell gossip to the scandal-monging press?

Indeed, at first I thought it was some such matter, but what scandal might there be among a set that is so not’d for matrimonial devotion? Even the Z-s, that us’d to be somewhat at outs, are now entire reconcil’d and Sir H- hangs over Lady Z- as if no woman ever got with child before. So then he said 'twas some politickal matter, but that featherwit Lady B- would not notice there was a revolution did the tumbrils roll past her door and tricoteuses sit upon her doorstep.

Sure, says I, was there a revolution I hope I should have sufficient wit to clap a very stylish red cap of liberty upon my head.

Mrs D-K- looks at me, and with some reluctance gives a smile and says, that is a deal more like. But he went about to intimate that there might be reward in it.

O, poo, says I. Has he not yet learnt the lesson that befell that Bavarian fellow that thought I went hide seditious Germanick agitators? I think his reward would be seeing his caricature in Holywell Street windows. Indeed, I go on, I have heard that he goes indulge in laughing-gas, in the hopes of poetic visions: but I think it gives him instead wild hallucinations.

Indeed, she says, he seem’d not entire himself – a little disorder’d in dress &C – a little rambling in speech.

Pray, says I, that his brain is not entire turn’d and he does not end up in Bedlam.

He did say, she goes on, that he dar’d say my late husband had found somewhat out, had he not communicat’d anything to me? was there not anything among his papers? So I told him that his affairs were in such disorder that I had give all his papers to MacD-, at which he groan’d exceedingly.

O, says I, sure must be entire an effect of the gas, tho’ has ever been inclin’d to talk wild.

She sighs and says she confides the old b---h will be stirring from her nap. She stands up, and looks at me for a little, and then blinks and says she must go.

After she has depart’d I go sit gazing into the fire. Did she come warn me? 'Tis a wonder, if so.