you
cordially for your assistance; but the dog, the rascal, where is he?"

"Gone," said Clarence.

"Gone! Where--where?" cried Borodaile; "that living man should insult
me, and yet escape!"

"Which way did the fellow go?" said the watchman, anticipative of
half-a-crown. "I will run after him in a trice, your honour: I warrant I
nab him."

"No--no--" said Borodaile, haughtily, "I leave my quarrels to no man;
if I could not master him myself, no one else shall do it for me. Mr.
Linden, excuse me, but I am perfectly recovered, and can walk very well
without your polite assistance. Mr. Watchman, I am obliged to you: there
is a guinea to reward your trouble."

With these words, intended as a farewell, the proud patrician,
smothering his pain, bowed with extreme courtesy to Clarence, again
thanked him, and walked on unaided and alone.

"He is a game blood," said the watchman, pocketing the guinea.

"He is worthy his name," thought Clarence; "though he was in the wrong,
my heart yearns to him."

CHAPTER XXXV.

Things wear a vizard which I think to like not.--Tanner of
Tyburn.

Clarence, from that night, appeared to have formed a sudden attachment
to Lord Borodaile. 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. To
have been once seen in a humiliating and degrading situation is quite
sufficient to make a proud man hate the spectator, and, with the
confusion of all prejudiced minds, to transfer the sore remembrance
of the event to the association of the witness. Lord Borodaile, though
always ceremoniously civil, was immovably distant; and avoided as well
as he was able Clarence's insinuating approaches and address. To add to
his indisposition to increase his acquaintance with Linden, a friend of
his, a captain in the Guards, once asked him who that Mr. Linden was?
and, on his lordship's replying that he did not know, Mr. Percy Bobus,
the son of a wine-merchant, though the nephew of a duke, rejoined,
"Nobody does know."

"Insolent intruder!" thought Lord Borodaile: "a man whom nobody knows to
make such advances to me!"

A still greater cause of dislike to Clarence arose from jealousy.
Ever since the first night of his acquaintance w