ons are seldom made and never
broken."

Whatever happened to most of Lady Mary's resolutions, this one, at
least, was not kept. Actually, Lady Mary was not quite so emancipated at
this time of her life as she may have imagined. She never sent a letter,
except in fear and trembling. "I hazard a great deal if it falls
into other hands, and I write for all that," was her constant cry. Yet,
there was nothing in the correspondence, save the fact of it, to offend
even a most austere maiden aunt of the day.

The correspondence, of course, continued. The lovers, if so they can be
called, now indulged in a slightly acid academic discussion, or rather a
number of slightly acid academic discussions, about marriage. It is
evident that Montagu held strong views as to the duty of a wife; so
undoubtedly did Lady Mary--only, the trouble was, the views were by no
means identical. If he were determined to set himself up as the strong
loquacious man, his _fiancee_ was certainly not prepared meekly to obey
his behests in silence. They indulged in a somewhat candid examination
of each other's character--and of their own. It is really rather
amusing, this careful cold-blooded dissection of their feelings. It is a
safe guess that at this game Lady Mary scored heavily.

"I wish, with all my soul, I thought as you do," she wrote on April 25,
1710. "I endeavour to convince myself by your arguments, and am sorry my
reason is so obstinate, not to be deluded into an opinion, that 'tis
impossible a man can esteem a woman. I suppose I should then be very
easy at your thoughts of me; I should thank you for the wit and beauty
you give me, and not be angry at the follies and weaknesses; but, to my
infinite affliction, I can believe neither one nor t'other. One part of
my character is not so good, nor t'other so bad, as you fancy it. Should
we ever live together, you would be disappointed both ways; you would
find an easy equality of temper you do not expect, and a thousand faults
you do not imagine. You think, if you married me, I should be
passionately fond of you one month, and of somebody else the next:
neither would happen. I can esteem, I can be a friend, but I don't know
whether I can love. Expect all that is complaisant and easy, but never
what is fond, in me. You judge very wrong of my heart, when you suppose
me capable of views of interest, and that anything could oblige me to
flatter any body. Was I the most indigent creature in the worl