Now, nothing could be more diplomatic than the compliment of choosing a wet day for a visit, and exposing one’s self to “the pitiless shower,” for the greater probability of finding the person visited at home. Not so thought Lord Borodaile; he drew himself up, bowed very solemnly, and said, with cold gravity,—
“You are very obliging, Mr. Linden.”
Clarence coloured, and bit his lip as he seated himself. Mr. Percy Bobus, with true insular breeding, took up the newspaper.
“I think I saw you at Lady C.‘s last night,” said Clarence; “did you stay there long?”
“No, indeed,” answered Borodaile; “I hate her parties.”
“One does meet such odd people there,” observed Mr. Percy Bobus; “creatures one never sees anywhere else:”
“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.”
“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.