Iwrite to you to-day, my dear child, to find fault with you. I hope this beginning will not frighten you. My reproofs you know are as gentle as your faults are small. Madame de Limours wrote me an account of a family supper at which you was present, and of a certain game at cards, which I confess a little chagrined me. I cannot figure to myself my charming daughter, who is so gentle, so humble, and at the same time so noble, giving herself up to all the extravagance of false mirth, disfiguring her sweet face by noisy and affected bursts of laughter, and making those little shrill screams, like Mademoiselle de Cerny, and Mademoiselle de Limours. Whence proceeded all these effects? Was you really vexed at the run of the cards? If you felt such an emotion, doubtless you ought to have concealed it, for it is absurd and shameful to shew it. Besides, you are no miser, nor ever play high, and it is absolutely indifferent to you whether you win or lose; consequently all those cries and appearances of vexation were only affectation. It is scarce worth while to give up your sweetness of temper, in order to gain the character of a bad player, or of want of judgment. I am sure you could not entertain so foolish an idea for a moment, but to shew your complaisance to the company you played with. But if you encourage this weakness, it will lead you farther than you imagine. When people adopt follies, either from fashion or condescension, they suffer themselves to be hurried away by still more seducing, and dangerous examples. I know the purity of your heart, your docility, and confidence in me; I know the advice of your mother can never be neglected by you, and have no fears of you for the future.