“’Tis from high life high characters are drawn.”—Pope.
My Lord and Lady, who reside not a hundred miles from this neighbourhood, sat by the fireside in the drawing room; his Lordship on the right hand—her Ladyship on the left. The fire was dull, so was his Lordship; the weather was dull, so was her Ladyship. His Lordship moved the poker from the right hand side of the fireplace to that of the left: her Ladyship moved it back again. His Lordship scratched his left ear; her Ladyship scratched her right—violently too—and then quitted the room. His Lordship rang the bell. A footman entered. He was clad for a journey.
“John,” said his Lordship, “has Tattersall sent the horses?”
“Yes, your Lordship,” said John, “they are at the door?”
“Four of them?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“Do they look creditable?”
“Perfect, your honour! Full of flesh and rampart spirit, pawing up the stones.”
“What colour?”