“Mr. Temple, and my daughter Rosamond, whom your lordship honoured with so kind an invitation, propose, I know, paying their respects to you next week. Though I am her father, I may venture to say that Rosamond’s sprightliness is so mixed with solid information and good sense, that her society will become agreeable to your lordship.” “I shall rejoice to see Mrs. Temple here. As the daughter of one friend, and the wife of another, she has a double claim to my regard. And (to say nothing of hereditary genius or dispositions--in which you do not believe, and I do), there can be no doubt that the society of a lady, educated as your daughter has been, must suit my taste. The danger is, that her society should become necessary to me. For Mr. Temple I already feel a degree of affection, which I must repress, rather than indulge.” “Repress!--Why so, my lord? You esteem him--you believe in the sincerity of his attachment?” “I do.” “Then why with stoicism--pardon me, my dear lord--why repress affection?” “Lest I should become dependent for my daily happiness on one, whose happiness is independent of mine--in some degree incompatible with mine. Even if his society were given to me, his heart must be at his home, and with his family. You see I am no proud stoic, but a man who dares to look at life--the decline of life, such as it is--as it must be. Different, Mr. Percy, in your situation--and in mine.” The conversation was here interrupted by the arrival of a carriage. Lord Oldborough looked out of the window as it passed--then smiled, and observed how altered the times were, since Clermont-park used to be crowded with visitors and carriages--now the arrival of one is an event. The servant announced a foreign name, a Neapolitan abbé, who had come over in the train of a new ambassador: he had just arrived in England, and had letters from the Cardinal . . ., his uncle, which he was desired to deliver into Lord Oldborough’s own hand. The abbé was, it appeared, personally a stranger to him, but there had been some ministerial intercourse between his lordship and the cardinal. Lord Oldborough received these political letters with an air of composure and indifference which proved that he ceased to have an interest in the game. “He supposed,” he said, “that the abbé had been apprized that he was no longer one of his majesty’s ministers--that he had resigned his official situation--had retired--and that he took no part whatever in public affairs.” The abbé replied that he had been apprized that Lord Oldborough had retired from the public office; but his uncle, he added, with a significant smile, was aware that Lord Oldborough’s influence was as great still as it had ever been, and greater than that of any ostensible minister.