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Directly Linden perceived that he was observed, he rose, turned away, and was soon lost among the crowd. Lord Borodaile, the son and heir of the powerful Earl of Ulswater, was about the age of thirty, small, slight, and rather handsome than otherwise, though his complexion was dark and sallow; and a very aquiline nose gave a stern and somewhat severe air to his countenance.
Minden's nephew a visit, in which he persuaded that gentleman to accept, "as presents," two admirable fire screens, the property of the late Lady Waddilove: the same may be now seen in the housekeeper's room at Borodaile Park by any person willing to satisfy his curiosity and the housekeeper. Of all further particulars respecting Mr. Morris Brown, history is silent.
Lord Borodaile flung himself on one of the sofas with a listless and discontented air. The experienced Frenchwoman saw that there was a cloud on his brow. "My dear friend," said she, in her own tongue, "you seem vexed: has anything annoyed you?" "No, Cecile, no. By the by, who supped with you last night?" "Oh! the Duke of Haverfield, your friend."
She is prodigiously extravagant; and Borodaile affects to be prodigiously fond: but as there is only a certain fund of affection in the human heart, and all Lord Borodaile's is centred in Lord Borodaile, that cannot really be the case." "Is he jealous of her?" said Clarence. "Not in the least! nor indeed, does she give him any cause.
"Pour l'amour de Dieu," cried the duke, "don't ask such puzzling questions; you are always getting into those moral subtleties, which I suppose you learn from Borodaile.
"How very disagreeable Lord Borodaile is!" said Lady Flora, when the object of the remark turned away and rejoined some idlers of his corps. "Disagreeable!" said Lady Westborough. "I think him charming: he is so sensible. How true his remarks on the world are!"
He had an exceeding horror of all common people; a Claverhouse sort of supreme contempt to "puddle blood;" his lip seemed to wear scorn as a garment; a lofty and stern self-admiration, rather than self-love, sat upon his forehead as on a throne. He had, as it were, an awe of himself; his thoughts were so many mirrors of Viscount Borodaile dressed en dieu.
"I hear," said Clarence, who never abused any one, even the givers of stupid parties, if he could help it, and therefore thought it best to change the conversation, "I hear, Lord Borodaile, that some hunters of yours are to be sold. I purpose being a bidder for Thunderbolt." "I have a horse to sell you, Mr. Linden," cried Mr. Percy Bobus, springing from the sofa into civility; "a superb creature."
His eye was always eloquent in disdaining; to the plebeian it said, "You are not a gentleman;" to the prince, "You are not Lord Borodaile." Yet, with all this, he had his good points.
Linden that my days are to terminate: you are sure that Carabine saw to that trigger?" "Certain," said Mr. Percy, with his mouth full, "certain. Bless me, here's the carriage, and breakfast not half done yet." "Come, come," cried Borodaile, impatiently, "we must breakfast afterwards. Here, Roberts, see that we have fresh chocolate and some more cutlets when we return."
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