In this unsettled state, Tancred found himself one evening at Deloraine House. It was not a ball, it was only a dance, brilliant and select; but, all the same, it seemed to Tancred that the rooms could not be much more crowded. The name of the Marquess of Montacute, as it was sent along by the servants, attracted attention. Tancred had scarcely entered the world, his appearance had made a sensation, everybody talked of him, many had not yet seen him.
‘Oh! that is Lord Montacute,’ said a great lady, looking through her glass; ‘very distinguished!’
‘I tell you what,’ whispered Mr. Ormsby to Lord Valentine, ‘you young men had better look sharp; Lord Montacute will cut you all out!’
‘Oh! he is going to Jerusalem,’ said Lord Valentine.
‘Jerusalem!’ said Mr. Ormsby, shrugging his shoulders. ‘What can he find to do at Jerusalem?’
‘What, indeed,’ said Lord Milford. ‘My brother was there in ‘39; he got leave after the bombardment of Acre, and he says there is absolutely no sport of any kind.’
‘There used to be partridges in the time of Jeremiah,’ said Mr. Ormsby; ‘at least they told us so at the Chapel Royal last Sunday, where, by-the-bye, I saw Lord Montacute for the first time; and a deuced good-looking fellow he is,’ he added, musingly.
‘Well, there is not a bird in the whole country now,’ said Lord Milford.
‘Montacute does not care for sport,’ said Lord Valentine.
‘What does he care for?’ asked Lord Milford. ‘Because, if he wants any horses, I can let him have some.’