The ballot must be over by this time. Sure there is nothing so dreadful as a state of suspence: but should they black ball me!--No, there's no danger of that; miss Mattadore has insur'd me success.--Well, this is certainly one of the most useful institutions; it positively supplies the only point of time one does not know how to employ. From twelve, the hour of one's rising, to dinner, is a most horrible chasm; for though teizing the mercers and milliners by tumbling their wares, is now and then an entertaining amusement, yet upon repetition it palls.--But every morning to be sure of a party, and then again at night after a rout, to have a place to retire to; to be quite freed from all pain of providing; not to be pester'd at table with the odious company of clients, and country cousins; for I am determin'd to dine, and sup at the club, every day. I can tell 'em, they'll have but very few forfeits from me. _Enter_ BETTY, _in haste, with a Letter_. BETTY. By a chairman, Madam, from the Thatch'd House. Mrs. CIRCUIT. Give it me, Betty, this instant;--ay--this is Mattadore's hand. [_opens and reads the letter._] "My dear Circuit--it is with the utmost concern, and confusion, I find myself oblig'd to acquaint you, that notwithstanding all the pains I have taken, the club have thought fit to reject."--Oh! [_She faints._] BETTY. Bless my soul! my lady is gone!--John! Will! Kitty! run hither this instant.-- _Enter two_ MAIDS _and a Man_ SERVANT. ALL. What, what's the matter? BETTY. Quick! quick! some hartshorn and water [_pats her hand._] Madam! madam-- SERVANT. Here! here! here! [_bringing water._] BETTY. John, go for the _potter-carrier_ this instant--I _believes_ to my soul she is dead--Kitty, fetch some feathers to burn under her nose;--there, stand further off, and give her some air-- _Enter Sir_ LUKE. Sir LUKE. Hey day! what the deuce is the matter? what's the meaning of all this, Mrs. Betty? BETTY. Oh! Sir, is it you--my poor lady! [_cries_] clap the bottle hard to her nose. Sir LUKE. But how came it about? BETTY. Some of the _continents_ of that curs'd letter, she has there in her hand. Sir LUKE. Here, here, take some of my eau de luce. [_offering a bottle._] BETTY. There! she recovers a little--some water--I believe it is nothing but a _satirical_ fit, I have had them myself--now she opens her eyes--so, so--bend her forward a little. Sir LUKE. My sweet Mrs. Circuit. Mrs. CIRCUIT. Who is that? BETTY. Nobody at all madam, but only Sir Luke. Mrs. CIRCUIT. Oh! Sir Luke, such a stroke, so fatal, so sudden, it is not in nature I should ever survive it. Sir LUKE. Marry heaven forbid! but what cause--what could-- Mrs. CIRCUIT. Leave the room. [_To the servants, who go out._] Only, look over that letter. Sir LUKE. Hum, hum,--[_reads_] "fit to reject you--this--" Mrs. CIRCUIT. There! there! there! Sir LUKE.