There they waited for a few minutes until Cholmondeley and Chichester joined them; and Egerton had leisure to admire the superb pier-glasses, the magnificent chandeliers, the handsome side-boards, the costly plate, and the other features of that gorgeous apartment.
When the Colonel and Chichester made their appearance, the party proceeded to the supper-room. There Egerton's eyes were completely dazzled by the brilliant looking-glasses, all set in splendid frames with curious designs—the crystal chandeliers—the elegant sconces—the superb mouldings—the massive plate—and the immense quantities of cut glasses and decanters. The curtains were of the richest damask silk; the walls were hung with choice pictures; and the whole magic scene was brilliantly lighted up with innumerable wax candles, the lustre of which was reflected in the immense mirrors. In a word, the voluptuousness and luxury of that apartment surpassed any thing of the kind that young Egerton had ever before witnessed.
Seated near one of the fire-places in conversation with an elderly gentleman, was an old man, somewhat inclined to stoutness, and very slovenly in his costume. His clothes were good; but they appeared to have been tossed upon him with a pitch-fork. His coat hung in large loose wrinkles over his rounded shoulders: his trousers appeared to hitch up about the thighs, as if through some defect in their cut; two or three of his waistcoat buttons had escaped from their holes, or else had not been fastened in them at all; his cravat was limp; and his shirt-frill was tumbled. His countenance was pale and sickly, and totally inexpressive of that natural astuteness and sharpness which had raised him from the most obscure position to be the companion of the noblest peers in the realm. His eyes were of that lack-lustre species which usually predicate mental dullness and moral feebleness, but which was at variance with the general rule in this instance. In a word, his entire appearance bespoke an individual whose health was wasted by long vigils and the want of needful repose and rest.
When Lord Dunstable's party entered the room, there were already three or four groups occupying supper-tables, on which the French dishes, prepared in Ude's best style steamed, with delicious odour.
"Will you take supper, Mr. Egerton?" inquired Lord Dunstable.
"No, I thank you, my lord," was the reply. "I believe Sir Rupert Harborough informed you that we had already been feeding together."
It was not true that Egerton had supped with the baronet and Chichester, as the reader knows; but Sir Rupert had already said so of his own accord, and Mr. Egerton was not the young man to contradict a statement which seemed to place him upon a certain degree of intimacy with the aforesaid baronet.
"Vot, no supper, my lord?" cried the stout gentleman, rising from his seat near the fire, and accosting Dunstable. "Yes—your lordship and your lordship's friends vill do that honour to Mosseer Ude's good things."
"No, I thank you," said Dunstable, coolly: "we shall not take any supper. We mean to step into the next room and amuse ourselves for an hour or so—eh, Mr. Egerton?"
And a significant glance, rapid as lightning, from Lord Dunstable's eyes, conveyed his meaning to the stout elderly gentleman with the sickly face.