“Well, I am sure it would be difficult to find anything odder than that waistcoat he wears. It is very disheartening, for I have really expended a great deal of time in trying to reform his taste. Ah, I think I see whom you must mean! That, Miss Tallant, is Horace Epworth. In his own estimation, he undoubtedly personifies a set of creatures whom I have reason to believe you despise.”
Blushing hotly, Arabella asked: “Is he a—a dandy?”
“He would certainly like you to think so.”
“Well, if he is,” said Arabella frankly, “I am sure you are no such thing, and I beg your pardon for saying it that evening!”
“Don’t apologize to him, ma’am!” said Lord Fleetwood gaily. “It is time someone gave him a set-down, and that, I assure you, smote him with stunning effect! You must know that he thinks himself a notable Corinthian!”
“What is that, pray?” enquired Arabella.
“A Corinthian, ma’am, besides being a very Tulip of Fashion, is an amateur of sport, a master of sword-play, a deadly fellow with a pistol, a Nonpareil amongst whips, a—”
Mr. Beaumaris interrupted this mock-solemn catalogue. “If you will be such a dead bore, Charles, you will provoke me to explain to Miss Tallant what the world means when it calls you a sad rattle.”
“Well?” demanded Arabella mischievously.
“A fribble, ma’am, not worth your attention!” he replied, rising to his feet. “I see my cousin over there, and must pay my respects to her.” He smiled, bowed, and moved away; stayed for a minute or two, talking to Lady Wainfleet; drank a glass of wine with Mr. Warkworth; complimented his hostess on the success of her party; and departed, having done precisely what he had set out to do, which was to place Miss Tallant’s feet securely on the ladder of fashion. The news would be all over town within twenty-four hours that the rich Miss Tallant was the Nonpareil’s latest flirt.