“Their vulgarity, shocking and repulsive to myself, appeared to afford his lordship a satisfaction greater than he derives from the graceful amenities of fashionable association—”
“Saunders, I suspect you of something.”
“Me, my lord!”
“Yes. Writing in an annual.”
“I do, my lord,” said he, with benignant hauteur. “It appears every month—The Polytechnic.”
“I thought so! you are polysyllabic, Saunders; en route!”
“In this hallucination I find it difficult to participate; associated from infancy with the aristocracy, I shrink, like the sensitive plant, from contact with anything vulgar.”
“I see! I begin to understand you, Saunders. Order the dog-cart, and Wordsworth's mare for leader; we'll give her a trial. You are an ass, Saunders.”
“Yes, my lord; I will order Robert to tell James to come for your lordship's commands about your lordship's vehicles. (What could he intend by a recent observation of a discourteous character?)”
His lordship soliloquized.