“Ay, there’s one picture that’s worth all the rest, ‘pon honour!” repeated Rochfort; “and we’ll leave it to your ladyship’s and Miss Portman’s taste and judgment to find it out, mayn’t we, Sir Philip?”
“Oh, damme! yes,” said Sir Philip, “by all means.” But he was so impatient to direct her eyes, that he could not keep himself still an instant.
“Oh, curse it! Rochfort, we’d better tell the ladies at once, else they may be all day looking and looking!”
“Nay, Sir Philip, may not I be allowed to guess? Must I be told which is your fine picture?—This is not much in favour of my taste.”
“Oh, damn it! your ladyship has the best taste in the world, every body knows; and so has Miss Portman—and this picture will hit her taste particularly, I’m sure. It is Clarence Hervey’s fancy; but this is a dead secret—dead—Clary no more thinks that we know it, than the man in the moon.”
“Clarence Hervey’s fancy! Then I make no doubt of its being good for something,” said Lady Delacour, “if the painter have done justice to his imagination; for Clarence has really a fine imagination.”
“Oh, damme! ‘tis not amongst the history pieces,” cried Sir Philip; “‘tis a portrait.”
“And a history piece, too, ‘pon honour!” said Rochfort: “a family history piece, I take it, ‘pon honour! it will turn out,” said Rochfort; and both the gentlemen were, or affected to be, thrown into convulsions of laughter, as they repeated the words, “family history piece, ‘pon honour!—family history piece, damme!”
“I’ll take my oath as to the portrait’s being a devilish good likeness,” added Sir Philip; and as he spoke, he turned to Miss Portman: “Miss Portman has it! damme, Miss Portman has him!”
Belinda hastily withdrew her eyes from the picture at which she was looking. “A most beautiful creature!” exclaimed Lady Delacour.