“I should guess he chose to do it himself,” says the Princess Emily, whose love for her brother matched that of his parents. “He would never omit so fine an occasion for brutality to a woman.” Since her Royal Highness was the softest-tongued member of her Royal family, so her speech must be read as gentle in comparison with others. “No, Emily,” says her Majesty, knotting serenely. “Your brother is a nauseous fool, but even to his purblind folly it must appear that the public expects a decency in such things. I wager he chose my Lord Bolingbroke as a polite letter-writer whoever he chose to carry it, but his choice was with his usual folly for Mrs. Vane has out-lettered him altogether. The imbecile must needs go about showing her answer, and I own I thought the gray mare by far the better horse. If indeed she writ it at all.” My Lord clapt his hands softly. “Trust your Majesty’s discernment!” he cried in a polite rapture. “Of course Mrs. Vane didn’t write the letter. ’Tis much if she could write her own name with a row of crosses for kisses. No, Madam, here is the true and authentic history. His Royal Highness chose my Lord Baltimore for the messenger of doom, Baltimore being in all his secrets, and his master supposing that if ever there was a man that had experience of the sex, ’tis he,—but Mrs. Vane is somewhat of a virago and when Baltimore sounded the trumpet of parley, she respected not the flag of truce but sallying forth routed him with great slaughter and so returned him to his master.” “What did he offer her on the Prince’s behalf?” inquired the Princess. “Why, Madam, a mere nothing—a flea-bite. The virtue of an opera-singer might be priced more highly. Sixteen hundred guineas a year. I wonder Baltimore had the effrontery to run of such an errand.” “He’s more princely in his own pleasures,” cries the Queen. “I hear he has offered Polly Peachum two thousand guineas a year and a diamond necklace. But my son adds a disgusting avarice to his other virtues. However—who writ the letter for the Vane, Hervey? ’Twas excellently done.” “Madam, your humble servant!” He bowed exquisitely—his thin white hand on the embroidery above his heart. “Aha! didn’t I say ’twas a masterpiece of tenderness and diplomacy, Emily? When one of the Walpoles was spoke of as the writer, I said there was a finesse the Walpoles lack. It might almost be thought a woman’s, and has certainly won the heart of that blundering fool, the English People,” concludes the Mother of her country.