When I picture to my mind the scene which is now acting in Grosvenor Square, I confess that I feel disgusted almost to estrangement from those who are the chief performers in such a drama; and you are very right in the belief that were there any means by which without lowering a mother's character, I could inform that _arch_-blockhead, whom she has entrapped, of the fraud that has been employed to take him in, I would certainly, in humbling his vanity, remove his blindness, and charitably catch him from the brink of a precipice. What a marriage you are _brewing_ amongst you! Were _you_ the victim about to be sacrificed on the altar of folly, I could not restrain my feelings, which would burst into immediate counteraction of a plot to destroy all happiness and respectability; and I am more quiescent on _this_ occasion, _not_ because I have always loved you so much better than Adelaide, but that I question the utility of endeavouring to snatch _her_ from the evil to come. She has no strength of character: her mind is a mere machine, ready and willing to be worked upon by the arts of any juggler who can produce a certificate of skill in the only science respected by a world holding all things in abhorrence that do not present themselves clad in the trappings of rank and fortune. If Adelaide were saved from falling into the hands of _one_ profligate coxcomb, she would quickly throw herself into the arms of _another_. Crayton is not a designing man, and that is the only redeeming circumstance that I can see in his character--if the word character have any meaning when applied to a person who has _none_.