Lady Chesterfield had the foible of all beauties, who place their merit
on the number of their admirers; and whatever airs she might imprudently
have given herself, in order not to discourage his royal highness, there
was no ground to suppose that she would indulge him in any greater
liberties to engage him: but in vain was it that he endeavoured to give
that consolation to his friend which he did not feel himself.
Chesterfield plainly perceived he did not think of what he was saying;
however, he thought himself much obliged to him for the interest he
seemed to take in his concerns.

Hamilton was in haste to go home to vent his spleen and resentment in a
letter to his cousin. The style of this billet was very different from
those which he formerly was accustomed to write to her: reproaches,
bitter expostulations, tenderness, menaces, and all the effusions of a
lover who thinks he has reason to complain, composed this epistle; which,
for fear of accidents, he went to deliver himself.

Never did she before appear so lovely, and never did her eyes speak so
kindly to him as at this moment: his heart quite relented; but he was
determined not to lose all the fine things he had said in his letter.
In receiving it, she squeezed his hand: this action completely disarmed
him, and he would have given his life to have had his letter again. It
appeared to him at this instant that all the grievances he complained of
were visionary and groundless: he looked upon her husband as a madman and
an impostor, and quite the reverse of what he supposed him to be a few
minutes before; but this remorse came a little too late: he had delivered
his billet, and Lady Chesterfield had shewn such impatience and eagerness
to read it as soon as she had got it that all circumstances seemed to
conspire to justify her, and to confound him. She managed to get quit,
some way or other, of some troublesome visitors, to slip into her closet.