I wanted to have another look at Leicester Stanhope, which I at last contrived to accomplish slyly. He is ugly, methinks, and yet I prefer him to any of the handsome Stanhopes, for there is something of better feeling and more expression in his eyes. I dare say this is not, in fact, the case, and that I merely preferred his ugliness to his brother's beauty, because he was the only one of the family who ever seemed to admire me even for an instant.
No, now I recollect myself, this is a libel on my own attractions; I remember Lord Petersham, after having for several years been in the habit of talking to me, and shaking my hand with the same sang froid one would have expected at fourscore, one Sunday morning, when we crossed each other's path at Hyde Park corner, paid me the following most flattering compliment.
"You are decidedly a very fine creature, but all that I have known for the last three years, and also that you are the wittiest, cleverest creature in London."
Now Lord Petersham knew no more of my wit than that of the man in the moon, only it was the fashion to call me clever and witty, and whoever had said otherwise would have himself passed for a fool.
"But," Petersham went on, "I will be frank with you; for you are too spoiled just now, and too vain to be angry with truth."
"So that you will make haste about it," interrupted I, observing that we were blocking up the road.
"Well then," said Petersham frankly, "your charms never excited in me the least particle of desire till this morning."
"The fact is," answered I, laughing, "it required more wit than all the wit of all the Stanhopes to find them out."
"No, no, no," said Petersham, "I always thought you beautiful; but it was the style of beauty that never warmed me till this morning."