Dr. Courtenay came to the assembly very late, with a new fashion
of pinchbeck buckles on his pumps and a new manner of taking snuff.
(I caught Fotheringay practising this by the stairs shortly after.)
Always an important man, the doctor's prominence had been increased that
day by the letter he had received. He was too thorough a courtier to
profess any grief over Miss Manners's match, and went about avowing that
he had always predicted a duke for Miss Dorothy. And he drew a deal of
pleasure from the curiosity of those who begged but one look at the
letter. Show it, indeed! For no consideration. A private communication
from one gentleman to another must be respected. Will Fotheringay swore
the doctor was a sly dog, and had his own reasons for keeping it to
himself.

The doctor paid his compliment to the captain of the Thunderer, and to
his Lordship; hoped that he would see them at the meet on the morrow,
tho' his gout forbade his riding to hounds. He saluted me in the most
friendly way, for I played billiards with him at the Coffee House now,
and he won my money. He had pronounced my phaeton to be as well
appointed as any equipage in town, and had done me the honour to
drive out with me on several occasions. It was Betty that brought
him humiliation that evening.

"What do you think of the soar our Pandora hath taken, Miss Betty?"
says he. "From a Maryland manor to a ducal palace. 'Tis a fable, egad!
No less!"

"Indeed, I think it is," retorted Betty. "Mark me, doctor, Dorothy will
not put up an instant with a roue and a brute."

"A roue!" cries he, "and a brute! What the plague, Miss Tayloe!