CHAPTER XIII.
In Which Ferdinand Has the Honour of Dining with Mr. Bond
Sharpe.
WHEN Ferdinand arrived at Mr. Bond Sharpe’s he was welcomed by his host in a magnificent suite of saloons, and introduced to two of the guests who had previously arrived. The first was a stout man, past middle age, whose epicurean countenance twinkled with humour. This was Lord Castlefyshe, an Irish peer of great celebrity in the world of luxury and play, keen at a bet, still keener at a dinner. Nobody exactly knew who the other gentleman, Mr. Bland-ford, really was, but he had the reputation of being enormously rich, and was proportionately respected. He had been about town for the last twenty years, and did not look a day older than at his first appearance. He never spoke of his family, was unmarried, and apparently had no relations; but he had contrived to identify himself with the first men in London, was a member of every club of great repute, and of late years had even become a sort of authority; which was strange, for he had no pretension, was very quiet, and but humbly ambitious; seeking, indeed, no happier success than to merge in the brilliant crowd, an accepted atom of the influential aggregate. As he was not remarkable for his talents or his person, and as his establishment, though well appointed, offered no singular splendour, it was rather strange that a gentleman who had apparently dropped from the clouds, or crept out of a kennel, should have succeeded in planting himself so vigorously in a soil which shrinks from anything not indigenous, unless it be recommended by very powerful qualities. But Mr. Bland-ford was good-tempered, and was now easy and experienced, and there was a vague tradition that he was immensely rich, a rumour which Mr. Blandford always contradicted in a manner which skilfully confirmed its truth.
‘Does Mirabel dine with you, Sharpe?’ enquired Lord Castlefyshe of his host, who nodded assent.
‘You won’t wait for him, I hope?’ said his lordship. ‘By-the-bye, Blandford, you shirked last night.’
‘I promised to look in at the poor duke’s before he went off,’ said Mr. Blandford.
‘Oh! he has gone, has he?’ said Lord Castlefyshe. ‘Does he take his cook with him?’
But here the servant ushered in Count Alcibiades de Mirabel, Charles Doricourt, and Mr. Bevil.
‘Excellent Sharpe, how do you do?’ exclaimed the Count. ‘Castlefyshe, what bêtises have you been talking to Crocky about Felix Winchester? Good Blandford, excellent Blandford, how is my good Blandford?’