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Updated: June 26, 2025
"Assuredly; through the Duke of Haverfield." "Humph! Cecile, my love, that young man is not fit to be the acquaintance of my friend: allow me to strike him from your list." "Certainly, certainly!" said La Meronville, hastily; and stooping as if to pick up a fallen glove, though, in reality, to hide her face from Lord Borodaile's searching eye, the letter she had written fell from her bosom.
He took every opportunity of cultivating his intimacy, and invariably treated him with a degree of consideration which his knowledge of the world told him was well calculated to gain the good will of his haughty and arrogant acquaintance; but all this was in effectual in conquering Borodaile's coldness and reserve.
"Have you been to Lady Westborough's lately?" said Clarence, breaking silence. "I was there last night," replied Lord Borodaile. "Indeed!" cried Clarence. "I wonder I did not see you there, for I dined with them." Lord Borodaile's hair curled of itself. "He dined there, and I only asked in the evening!" thought he; but his sarcastic temper suggested a very different reply.
But Clarence's quick eye discovered instantly that he was no welcome intruder, and that his day with the beautiful marchioness was over. His visit, consequently, was short and embarrassed. When he left the box, he heard Lord Borodaile's short, slow, sneering laugh, followed by Lady Westborough's "hush" of reproof. His blood boiled.
"Ah, quel malheur! then the hock will not be iced enough: Borodaile's looks are the best wine-coolers in the world." "Fie!" cried La Meronville, glancing towards Clarence, "I cannot endure your malevolence; wit makes you very bitter." "Bah! my Lord Duke, you judge of others by yourself." "To be sure I do," cried the duke; "and that is the best way of forming a right judgment.
But Clarence's quick eye discovered instantly that he was no welcome intruder, and that his day with the beautiful marchioness was over. His visit, consequently, was short and embarrassed. When he left the box, he heard Lord Borodaile's short, slow, sneering laugh, followed by Lady Westborough's "hush" of reproof. His blood boiled.
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