This Earl of Arran, Kate Chesterfield’s younger brother, was a little callow perfumed exquisite, a little lisping buck, who could play many parts prettily, but none to such effect as that of minstrel, for which, like Moore, and Leigh Hunt, and other twitterers of a later date, he had a small natural aptitude. So, when the Italian, by the King’s grace, brought guitars into that fashion that no lady’s toilet table was thought complete without it included a beribboned instrument among its rouge and powder-puffs, this curled darling found his opportunity, and earned through it a more devoted attention than any of his puppyish charms had hitherto been able to procure him.
“He must play it to me,” said the Duke. “The boy has a fine touch, though something due, no doubt, to the quality of his instrument. They say ’tis the best in all England.”
“No, that it is not,” said Hamilton unguardedly. “His sister owns the best.”
The Duke affected an air of momentary abstraction before he answered—
“What did you say? O, my lady Chesterfield! She plays too?”
“Faith! that is the word for it,” answered the other. “She plays, as they all do—at playing.”
“And she has a finer guitar than her brother, was it? She should lease it to him.”
“Doubtless she would, if asked.”
Again his answer seemed to pass unnoticed. Then the Duke started, as if recollecting himself.
“Eh?” he said: “we were discussing—what or whom? I’ve forgot. But let it pass. There was something of interest—what was it?—that I had in my mind to mention to you.”