"He is both, but it is not the cleverness of youth; he is as hard and sarcastic as if he had been cheated fifty times, and jilted a hundred! Neither are his good looks that letter of recommendation which a handsome face is said to be. He has an expression of countenance very much like that of Lord Hertford's pet bloodhound, when a stranger comes into the room. Very sleek, handsome dog, the bloodhound is certainly--well-mannered, and I dare say exceedingly tame; but still you have but to look at the corner of the eye, to know that it is only the habit of the drawing-room that suppresses the creature's constitutional tendency to seize you by the throat, instead of giving you a paw. Still this Mr Gower has a very striking head--something about it Moorish or Spanish, like a picture by Murillo: I half suspect that he is less a Gower than a gipsy!" "What!"--I cried, as I listened with rapt and breathless attention to this description. "He is then very dark, with high narrow forehead, features slightly aquiline, but very delicate, and teeth so dazzling that the whole face seems to sparkle when he smiles--though it is only the lip that smiles, not the eye." "Exactly as you say; you have seen him, then?" "Why, I am not sure, since you say his name is Gower." "_He_ says his name is Gower," returned Lord Castleton, drily, as he inhaled the Beaudesert mixture. "And where is he now?--with Mr Trevanion?" "Yes, I believe so. Ah! here we are--Fudge and Fidget! But perhaps," added Lord Castleton, with a gleam of hope in his blue eye,--"perhaps they are not at home!" Alas, that was an illusive "imagining," as the poets of the nineteenth century unaffectedly express themselves. Messrs Fudge and Fidget were never out to such clients as the Marquis of Castleton: with a deep sigh, and an altered expression of face, the Victim of Fortune slowly descended the steps of the carriage. "I can't ask you to wait for me," said he; "heaven only knows how long I shall be kept! Take the carriage where you will, and send it back to me." "A thousand thanks, my dear lord, I would rather walk--but you will let me call on you before I leave town." "Let you!--I insist on it. I am still at the old quarters, under pretence," said the marquis, with a sly twinkle of the eyelid, "that Castleton House wants painting!" "At twelve to-morrow, then?" "Twelve to-morrow. Alas! that's just the hour at which Mr Screw, the agent for the London property, (two squares, seven streets, and a lane!) is to call." "Perhaps two o'clock will suit you better?" "Two!--just the hour at which Mr Plausible, one of the Castleton members, insists upon telling me why his conscience will not let him vote with Trevanion!" "Three o'clock?" "Three!--just the hour at which I am to see the Secretary of the Treasury, who has promised to relieve Mr Plausible's conscience! But come and dine with me--you will meet the executors to the will!"