n planting himself so vigorously in a soil which shrinks from anything
not indigenous, unless it be recommended by very powerful qualities. But
Mr. Bland-ford was good-tempered, and was now easy and experienced, and
there was a vague tradition that he was immensely rich, a rumour which
Mr. Blandford always contradicted in a manner which skilfully confirmed
its truth.

'Does Mirabel dine with you, Sharpe?' enquired Lord Castlefyshe of his
host, who nodded assent.

'You won't wait for him, I hope?' said his lordship. 'By-the-bye,
Blandford, you shirked last night.'

'I promised to look in at the poor duke's before he went off,' said Mr.
Blandford.

'Oh! he has gone, has he?' said Lord Castlefyshe. 'Does he take his cook
with him?'

But here the servant ushered in Count Alcibiades de Mirabel, Charles
Doricourt, and Mr. Bevil.

'Excellent Sharpe, how do you do?' exclaimed the Count. 'Castlefyshe,
what _betises_ have you been talking to Crocky about Felix Winchester?
Good Blandford, excellent Blandford, how is my good Blandford?'

Mr. Bevil was a tall and handsome young man, of a great family and
great estate, who passed his life in an imitation of Count Alcibiades de
Mirabel. He was always dressed by the same tailor, and it was his pride
that his cab or his _vis-a-vis_ was constantly mistaken for the equipage
of his model; and really now, as the shade stood beside its substance,
quite as tall, almost as good-looking, with the satin-lined coat
thrown open with the same style of flowing grandeur, and revealing a
breastplate of starched cambric scarcely less broad and brilliant, the
uninitiated might have held the resemblance as perfect. The wristbands
were turned up with not less compact precision, and were fastened
by jewelled studs that glittered with not less radiancy. The satin
waistcoat, the creaseless hosen, were the same; and if the foot were
not quite as small, its Parisian polish was not less bright. But here,
unfortunately, Mr. Bevil's mimetic powers deserted him.

We start, for soul is wanting there!

The Count Mirabel could talk at all times, and at all times well; Mr.
Bevil never opened his mouth. Practised in the world, the Count Mirabel
was nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native grace, and an
intuitive knowledge of mankind, made every word pleasing and every act
appropriate; Mr. Bevil was all art, and he had not the talent to conceal
it. The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, generous; Mr.