His blood boiled. He hurried along the passage, with his eyes fixed upon the ground and his hand clenched.
“What ho! Linden, my good fellow; why, you look as if all the ferocity of the great Figg were in your veins,” cried a good-humoured voice. Clarence started, and saw the young and high-spirited Duke of Haverfield.
“Are you going behind the scenes?” said his grace. “I have just come thence; and you had much better drop into La Meronville’s box with me. You sup with her to-night, do you not?
“No, indeed!” replied Clarence; “I scarcely know her, except by sight.”
“Well, and what think you of her?”
“That she is the prettiest Frenchwoman I ever saw.”
“Commend me to secret sympathies!” cried the duke. “She has asked me three times who you were, and told me three times you were the handsomest man in London and had quite a foreign air; the latter recommendation being of course far greater than the former. So, after this, you cannot refuse to accompany me to her box and make her acquaintance.”
“Nay,” answered Clarence, “I shall be too happy to profit by the taste of so discerning a person; but it is cruel in you, Duke, not to feign a little jealousy,—a little reluctance to introduce so formidable a rival.”
“Oh, as to me,” said the duke, “I only like her for her mental, not her personal, attractions. She is very agreeable, and a little witty; sufficient attractions for one in her situation.”
“But do tell me a little of her history,” said Clarence, “for, in spite of her renown, I only know her as La belle Meronville. Is she not living en ami with some one of our acquaintance?”