“I am very fortunate,” said he, with that smile which so few ever resisted, “to find you at home, Lord Borodaile; but as the day was wet, I thought I should have some chance of that pleasure; I therefore wrapped myself up in my roquelaure, and here I am.” Now, nothing could be more diplomatic than the compliment of choosing a wet day for a visit, and exposing one’s self to “the pitiless shower,” for the greater probability of finding the person visited at home. Not so thought Lord Borodaile; he drew himself up, bowed very solemnly, and said, with cold gravity,-- “You are very obliging, Mr. Linden.” Clarence coloured, and bit his lip as he seated himself. Mr. Percy Bobus, with true insular breeding, took up the newspaper. “I think I saw you at Lady C.’s last night,” said Clarence; “did you stay there long?” “No, indeed,” answered Borodaile; “I hate her parties.” “One does meet such odd people there,” observed Mr. Percy Bobus; “creatures one never sees anywhere else:” “I hear,” said Clarence, who never abused any one, even the givers of stupid parties, if he could help it, and therefore thought it best to change the conversation,--“I hear, Lord Borodaile, that some hunters of yours are to be sold. I purpose being a bidder for Thunderbolt.” “I have a horse to sell you, Mr. Linden,” cried Mr. Percy Bobus, springing from the sofa into civility; “a superb creature.” “Thank you,” said Clarence, laughing; “but I can only afford to buy one, and I have taken a great fancy to Thunderbolt.” Lord Borodaile, whose manners were very antiquated in their affability, bowed. Mr. Bobus sank back into his sofa, and resumed the paper. A pause ensued. Clarence was chilled in spite of himself. Lord Borodaile played with a paper-cutter. “Have you been to Lady Westborough’s lately?” said Clarence, breaking silence. “I was there last night,” replied Lord Borodaile. “Indeed!” cried Clarence. “I wonder I did not see you there, for I dined with them.” Lord Borodaile’s hair curled of itself. “He dined there, and I only asked in the evening!” thought he; but his sarcastic temper suggested a very different reply. “Ah,” said he, elevating his eyebrows, “Lady Westborough told me she had had some people to dinner whom she had been obliged to ask. Bobus, is that the ‘Public Advertiser’? See whether that d--d fellow Junius has been writing any more of his venomous letters.” Clarence was not a man apt to take offence, but he felt his bile rise. “It will not do to show it,” thought he; so he made some further remark in a jesting vein; and, after a very ill-sustained conversation of some minutes longer, rose, apparently in the best humour possible, and departed, with a solemn intention never again to enter the house. Thence he went to Lady Westborough’s.