Jack sat behind with the two grooms, and
tooted on a cornet-a-piston in the most melancholy manner. He partook of
no refreshment on the road. His silence at his clubs was remarked:
smoking, billiards, military duties, and this and that, roused him a
little, and presently Jack was alive again. But then came the season,
Lady Clara Pulleyn's first season in London, and Jack was more alive than
ever. There was no ball he did not go to; no opera (that is to say, no
opera of certain operas) which he did not frequent. It was easy to see by
his face, two minutes after entering a room, whether the person he sought
was there or absent; not difficult for those who were in the secret to
watch in another pair of eyes the bright kindling signals which answered
Jack's fiery glances. Ah! how beautiful he looked on his charger on the
birthday, all in a blaze of scarlet, and bullion, and steel. O Jack! tear
her out of yon carriage, from the side of yonder livid, feathered,
painted, bony dowager! place her behind you on the black charger; cut
down the policeman, and away with you! The carriage rolls in through St.
Pages:
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688