“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 with Lady Flora, Lord Borodaile had paid her unceasing attention. In good earnest, he was greatly struck by her beauty, and had for the last year meditated the necessity of presenting the world with a Lady Borodaile. Now, though his lordship did look upon himself in as favourable a light as a man well can do, yet he could not but own that Clarence was very handsome, had a devilish gentlemanlike air, talked with a better grace than the generality of young men, and danced to perfection. “I detest that fellow!” said Lord Borodaile, involuntarily and aloud, as these unwilling truths forced themselves upon his mind.
“Whom do you detest?” asked Mr. Percy Bobus, who was lying on the sofa in Lord Borodaile’s drawing-room, and admiring a pair of red-heeled shoes which decorated his feet.
“That puppy Linden!” said Lord Borodaile, adjusting his cravat.
“He is a deuced puppy, certainly!” rejoined Mr. Percy Bobus, turning round in order to contemplate more exactly the shape of his right shoe. “I can’t bear conceit, Borodaile.”
“Nor I: I abhor it; it is so d—d disgusting!” replied Lord Borodaile, leaning his chin upon his two hands, and looking full into the glass. “Do you use MacNeile’s divine pomatum?”
“No, it’s too hard; I get mine from Paris: shall I send you some?”
“Do,” said Lord Borodaile.
“Mr. Linden, my lord,” said the servant, throwing open the door; and Clarence entered.
“I am very fortunate,” said he, with that smile which so few ever resisted, “to find you at home, Lord Borodaile; but as the day was wet, I thought I should have some chance of that pleasure; I therefore wrapped myself up in my roquelaure, and here I am.”