he 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."

"Thank you," said Clarence, laughing; "but I can only afford to buy one,
and I have taken a great fancy to Thunderbolt."

Lord Borodaile, whose manners were very antiquated in their affability,
bowed. Mr. Bobus sank back into his sofa, and resumed the paper.

A pause ensued. Clarence was chilled in spite of himself. Lord Borodaile
played with a paper-cutter.

"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.

"Ah," said he, elevating his eyebrows, "Lady Westborough told me she had
had some people to dinner whom she had been obliged to ask. Bobus, is
that the 'Public Advertiser'? See whether that d--d fellow Junius has
been writing any more of his venomous letters."

Clarence was not a man apt to take offence, but he felt his bile rise.
"It will not do to show it," thought he; so he made some further remark
in a jesting vein; and, after a very ill-sustained conversation of
some minutes longer, rose, apparently in the best humour possible, and
departed, with a solemn intention never again to enter the house. Thence
he went to Lady Westborough's.

The marchioness was in her boudoir: Clarence was as usual admitted;
for Lady Westborough loved amusement above all things in the world, and
Clarence had the art of affording it better than any young man of her
acquaintance. On entering, he saw Lady Flora hastily retreating through
an opposite door. She turned her face towards him for one moment: that
moment was sufficient to freeze his blood: the large tears were rolling
down her cheeks, which were as white as death, and the expression of
those features, usually so laughing and joyous, was that of utter and
ineffable despair.

Lady Westborough was as lively, as bland, and as agreeable as ever:
but Clarence thought he detected something restrained and e