You blame Marcius for being proud. ­Coriolanus.  Here is
     another fellow, a marvellous pretty hand at fashioning a
     compliment.-The Tanner of Tyburn.

There was a brilliant ball at Lady T ­’s, a personage who, every one knows, did in the year 17 ­ give the best balls, and have the best-dressed people at them, in London.  It was about half-past twelve, when Clarence, released from his three friends, arrived at the countess’s.  When he entered, the first thing which struck him was Lord Borodaile in close conversation with Lady Flora.

Clarence paused for a few moments, and then, sauntering towards them, caught Flora’s eye, ­coloured, and advanced.  Now, if there was a haughty man in Europe, it was Lord Borodaile.  He was not proud of his birth, nor fortune, but he was proud of himself; and, next to that pride, he was proud of being a gentleman.  He had an exceeding horror of all common people; a Claverhouse sort of supreme contempt to “puddle blood;” his lip seemed to wear scorn as a garment; a lofty and stern self-admiration, rather than self-love, sat upon his forehead as on a throne.  He had, as it were, an awe of himself; his thoughts were so many mirrors of Viscount Borodaile dressed en dieu.  His mind was a little Versailles, in which self sat like Louis XIV., and saw nothing but pictures of its self, sometimes as Jupiter and sometimes as Apollo.  What marvel then, that Lord Borodaile was a very unpleasant companion? for every human being he had “something of contempt.”  His eye was always eloquent in disdaining; to the plebeian it said, “You are not a gentleman;” to the prince, “You are not Lord Borodaile.”

Yet, with all this, he had his good points.  He was brave as a lion; strictly honourable; and though very ignorant, and very self-sufficient, had that sort of dogged good sense which one very often finds in men of stern hearts, who, if they have many prejudices, have little feeling, to overcome.

Very stiffly and very haughtily did Lord Borodaile draw up, when Clarence approached and addressed Lady Flora; much more stiffly and much more haughtily did he return, though with old-fashioned precision of courtesy, Clarence’s bow, when Lady Westborough introduced them to each other.  Not that this hauteur was intended as a particular affront:  it was only the agreeability of his lordship’s general manner.

“Are you engaged?” said Clarence to Flora.

“I am, at present, to Lord Borodaile.”

“After him, may I hope?”

Lady Flora nodded assent, and disappeared with Lord Borodaile.

His Royal Highness the Duke of ­ came up to Lady Westborough; and Clarence, with a smiling countenance and an absent heart, plunged into the crowd.  There he met Lord Aspeden, in conversation with the Earl of Holdenworth, one of the administration.

“Ah, Linden,” said the diplomatist, “let me introduce you to Lord Holdenworth, ­a clever young man, my dear lord, and plays the flute beautifully.”  With this eulogium, Lord Aspeden glided away; and Lord Holdenworth, after some conversation with Linden, honoured him by an invitation to dinner the next day.