Sir George would not have had the least pretension to be the glass of

fashion and the mould of form, which St. James's Street considered him,

if he had failed to give a large share of his thoughts while he supped

to the beautiful woman he had quitted. He knew very well what steps Lord

March or Tom Hervey would take, were either in his place; and though he

had no greater taste for an irregular life than became a man in his

station who was neither a Methodist nor Lord Dartmouth, he allowed his

thoughts to dwell, perhaps longer than was prudent, on the girl's

perfections, and on what might have been were his heart a little harder,

or the not over-rigid rule which he observed a trifle less stringent.

The father was dead. The girl was poor: probably her ideal of a gallant

was a College beau, in second-hand lace and stained linen, drunk on ale

in the forenoon. Was it likely that the fortress would hold out long, or

that the maiden's heart would prove to be more obdurate than Danäe's?

Soane, considering these things and his self-denial, grew irritable over

his Chambertin. He pictured Lord March's friend, the Rena, and found

this girl immeasurably before her. He painted the sensation she would

make and the fashion he could give her, and vowed that she was a Gunning

with sense and wit added; to sum up all, he blamed himself for a saint

and a Scipio. Then, late as it was, he sent for the landlord, and to get

rid of his thoughts, or in pursuance of them, inquired of that worthy if

Mr. Thomasson was in residence at Pembroke.

'Yes, Sir George, he is,' the landlord answered; and asked if he should

send for his reverence.

'No,' Soane commanded. 'If there is a chair to be had, I will go to

him.' 'There is one below, at your honour's service. And the men are waiting.'

So Sir George, with the landlord, lighting him and his man attending

with his cloak, descended the stairs in state, entered the sedan, and

was carried off to Pembroke.




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