Your last letter has made me very unhappy. Is it possible that you can really believe I have forgotten you?--I acknowledge that I have been very very remiss about writing; but indeed my heart has always been right towards you, though perhaps my conduct has not been so; however, I acknowledge my fault in this instance, though Lady Eltondale told me the other day, when I regretted not having answered either of your two last letters, that nobody but me kept a debtor and creditor account of correspondence; and that she was sure you could not really be uneasy about me, as you could never look at a newspaper without seeing my name in it, and of course knowing I was both "alive and merry." And, indeed, I often wonder how people have time to think and write so much about such a foolish girl as I am.--Do you know, the milliners have called a new cap, and a little satin hat, by my name?--Could you have believed, that your poor Selina would ever have been godmother to such bantlings? _Mais le vrai n'est pas toujours vraisemblable_; and I verily am installed, without any probation, into all the dignities of the _ton_. Mr. Sedley always tells me, I must be more than ever attentive to my manners; as, if I was to walk like the "Anthropophagi, whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders," I should make it the fashion, and every other girl would do the same. I do acknowledge, dear dear aunt, that I am quite delighted with London. It far, far exceeds my expectation: indeed all the descriptions of it I used to hear from Miss Cecilia Webberly are so different from what I found the reality to be, that I wonder where she can have met the originals of her extraordinary caricatures. And as for Vauxhall and Astley's, that Miss Martin used to talk so much about, I should hardly believe there were such places in existence, if it was not for the advertisements I sometimes see in the newspapers. Poor Lucy! I wonder what she is doing now at Deane, vegetating in the country, as Lady Eltondale calls it, like a red cabbage, all through the winter. Do you know, aunt, I never like to think of the poor old Hall: I was so very happy there--so cheerful--so contented--you all then loved me so dearly, I had not a wish ungratified: now, in town, I am much more gay, but yet I seldom go into a crowded room, without a kind of feverish anxiety about a something, I know not what; and I seldom return home, at night, without a languor on my spirits I never experienced in former times;--but all that will soon wear away.--I am much fonder now of going to parties than I was at first; for though I always liked balls and the Opera, I did not much admire routs, but now I think them very pleasant, for I generally meet Mr. Sedley, and he