The first letters that were written to announce her intended marriage were to Mrs. Hungerford and to Lady Jane Granville. And it may be recorded as a fact rather unusual, that Caroline was so fortunate as to satisfy all her friends: not to offend one of her relations, by telling any too soon, or too late, of her intentions. In fact, she made no secret, no mystery, where none was required by good sense or propriety. Nor did she communicate it under a strict injunction of secrecy to twenty friends, who were afterwards each to be angry with the other for having, or not having, told that of which they were forbidden to speak. The order of precedency in Caroline’s confidential communications was approved of even by all the parties concerned. Mrs. Hungerford was at Pembroke with her nieces when she received Caroline’s letter: her answer was as follows: “MY DEAR CHILD, “I am ten years younger since I read your letter, therefore do not be surprised at the quickness of my motions--I shall be with you at the Hills, in town, or wherever you are, as soon as it is possible, after you let me know when and where I can embrace you and our dear Count. At the marriage of my niece, Lady Mary Barclay, your mother will remember that I prayed to Heaven I might live to see my beloved Caroline united to the man of her choice--I am grateful that this blessing, this completion of all my earthly hopes and happiness, has been granted to me. “M. ELIZABETH HUNGERFORD.” The answer of Lady Jane Granville came next. “_Confidential_. “This is the last _confidential_ letter I shall ever be able to write to you--for a married woman’s letters, you know, or you will soon know, become, like all the rest of her property, subject to her husband--excepting always the secrets of which she was possessed before marriage, which do not go into the common stock, if she be a woman of honour--so I am safe with you, Caroline; and any erroneous opinion I might have formed, or any hasty expressions I may have let drop, about a certain Count, you will bury in oblivion, and never let me see you look even as if you recollected to have heard them. “You were right, my dear, in that whole business--I was wrong; and all I can say for myself is, that I was wrong with the best possible intentions. I now congratulate you with as sincere joy, as if this charming match had been made by my advice, under my _chaperonage_, and by favour of that _patronage of fashion_, of which I know your father thinks that both my _head_ and _heart_ are full; there he is only half right, after all: so do not let him be too proud. I will not allow that my heart is ever wrong, certainly not where you are concerned.