“So, they say,” observed Lord St. George, “that young Linden is to marry Lady Flora Ardenne.”
“Les on-dits font la gazette des fous,” rejoined Borodaile with a sneer. “I believe that Lady Flora is little likely to contract such a misalliance.”
“Misalliance!” replied Lord St. George. “I thought Linden was of a very old family; which you know the Westboroughs are not, and he has great expectations—”
“Which are never to be realized,” interrupted Borodaile, laughing scornfully.
“Ah, indeed!” said Lord St. George, seriously. “Well, at all events he is a very agreeable, unaffected young man: and, by the by, Borodaile, you will meet him chez moi to-day; you know you dine with me?”
“Meet Mr. Linden! I shall be proud to have that honour,” said Borodaile, with sparkling eyes; “will Lady Westborough be also of the party?”
“No, poor Lady St. George is very ill, and I have taken the opportunity to ask only men.”
“You have done wisely, my lord,” said Borodaile, secum multa revolvens; “and I assure you I wanted no hint to remind me of your invitation.”
Here the Duke of Haverfield joined them. The duke never bowed to any one of the male sex; he therefore nodded to Borodaile, who, with a very supercilious formality, took off his hat in returning the salutation. The viscount had at least this merit in his pride,—that if it was reserved to the humble, it was contemptuous to the high: his inferiors he wished to remain where they were; his equals he longed to lower.
“So I dine with you, Lord St. George, to-day,” said the duke; “whom shall I meet?”