ning, if not shrewd. In short, his character might be summed up in a word—Lord Marchmont was an intensely selfish man.
Being, at length, comfortably settled in his fauteuil, one foot balanced on a chair, and the other reposed on a stool, his snuff-box opened, and his perfumed handkerchief ready,—Henrietta thought that she might begin to speak.
"I wanted so much to see you," exclaimed she.
"Very flattering," replied his lordship, with a grave inclination.
"I have so much," continued she, "to talk to you about."
"Perhaps, madam," interrupted Lord Marchmont, in a slow and solemn tone, "you will accord me my privilege of speaking first. I have also much to say to you."
It was now Henrietta's turn to seek a comfortable position; and, sinking back on the sofa, she began to pick another rose to pieces. To this his lordship paid no attention, he had a certain number of words to say, and the idea
