To Miss Montague.
Saturday.
Yes, my dear, I love, at least I think so; but, thanks to my stars,
not in the manner you do.
I prefer Fitzgerald to all the rest of his sex; but _I count the
hours of his absence in my existence_; and contrive sometimes to
pass them pleasantly enough, if any other agreable man is in the way:
in short, I relish flattery and attention from others, though I
infinitely prefer them from him.
I certainly love him, for I was jealous of Madame La Brosse; but, in
general, I am not alarmed when I see him flirt a little with others.
Perhaps my vanity was as much wounded as my love, with regard to Madame
La Brosse.
I find love is quite a different plant in different soils; it is an
exotic, and grows faintly, with us coquets; but in its native climate
with you people of sensibility and sentiment.
Adieu! I will attend you in a quarter of an hour.
Yours,
A. Fermor.