“Then I will tell you the secret, Lord Delacour—that there is no secret at all in the lock, or in the letters. Here, if you can stand the odious smell of ottar of roses, take these letters and read them, foolish man; and keep them till the shocking perfume is gone off.”
Lord Delacour could scarcely believe his senses; he looked in Lady Delacour’s eyes to see whether he had understood her rightly.
“But I am afraid,” said she, smiling, “that you will find the perfume too overcoming.”
“Not half so overcoming,” cried he, seizing her hand, and kissing it often with eager tenderness, “not half so overcoming as this confidence, this kindness, this condescension from you.”
“Miss Portman will think us both a couple of old fools,” said her ladyship, making a slight effort to withdraw her hand. “But she is almost as great a simpleton herself, I think,” continued she, observing that the tears stood in Belinda’s eyes.
“My lord,” said a footman who came in at this instant, “do you dress? The carriage is at the door, as you ordered, to go to Lord Studley’s.”
“I’d see Lord Studley at the devil, sir, and his burgundy along with him, before I’d go to him to-day; and you may tell him so, if you please,” cried Lord Delacour.
“Very well, my lord,” said the footman.
“My lord dines at home—they may put up the carriage—that’s all,” said Lady Delacour: “only let us have dinner directly,” added she, as the servant shut the door. “Miss Portman will be famished amongst us: there is no living upon sentiment.”
“And there is no living with such belles without being something more of a beau,” said Lord Delacour, looking at his splashed boots. “I will be ready for dinner before dinner is ready for me.” With activity very unusual to him, he hurried out of the room to change his dress.