As Lionel, his crest erect and nostril dilated, and holding Sophy firmly by the hand, took his way out from the gardens, he was obliged to pass the patrician party, of whom Vance now made one.
His countenance and air, as he swept by, struck them all, especially Lady Selina. “A very distinguished-looking boy,” said she. “What a fine face! Who did you say he was, Mr. Vance?”
VANCE.—“His name is Haughton,—Lionel Haughton.”
LADY SELINA.—“Haughton! Haughton! Any relation to poor dear Captain Haughton,—Charlie Haughton, as he was generally called?”
Vance, knowing little more of his young friend’s parentage than that his mother let lodgings, at which, once domiciliated himself, he had made the boy’s acquaintance, and that she enjoyed the pension of a captain’s widow, replied carelessly,—
“His father was a captain, but I don’t know whether he was a Charlie.”
MR. CRAMPE (the wit).—“Charlies are extinct! I have the last in a fossil,—box and all.”
General laugh. Wit shut up again.
LADY SELINA.—“He has a great look of Charlie Haughton. Do you know if he is connected with that extraordinary man, Mr. Darrell?”
VANCE.—“Upon my word, I do not. What Mr. Darrell do you mean?”