The French, old or young, ugly or handsome, all are lovers; and are as
liberal of their amorous sighs, and addresses, as if each were an
Adonis. Clifton is well acquainted with foreign manners, or I can
perceive their gallantry to me would make him half mad. As it is, he
has been little less than rude, to one or two of the most forward of my
pretended admirers.

I speak in the plural, as if we were rather in town than at a country
seat; and so we appear to be. The French nobility do not seem to have
any taste for solitude. Their love of variety induces them to change
the scene; but the same tumult of guests and visitors, coming and
going, is every where their delight. Whatever can attract company they
seek with avidity. I am dear to them, because I am an English beauty,
as they tell me, and all the world is desirous of paying its court to
me.

Clifton has equal or perhaps greater merits of the same kind. And I
assure you, Louisa, the women here can pay their court more artfully
and almost as openly as the men.

Frank is idolized by them, because he reads Shakespeare. You would
wonder to hear the praises they bestow upon him, and which indeed he
richly deserves, though not one in ten of them understands a word he
says. _C'est beau! C'est magnifique! C'est superbe! C'est sublime!_
Such is their continual round of good-natured superlatives, which they
apply on all occasions, with a sincere desire To make others as happy
as they endeavour to persuade themselves to be. Frank treats their
gallantry with a kind of silent contempt, otherwise he would be a much
greater favourite.