toiled through an obscure rubber, but more frequently he sat with his hands clasped, and his mouth open, counting the number of candles in the room, or calculating "When that d—d music would be over."
Lord Mauleverer, though a polished and courteous man, whose great object was necessarily to ingratiate himself with the father of his intended bride, had a horror of being bored, which surpassed all other feelings in his mind. He could not, therefore, persuade himself to submit to the melancholy duty of listening to the Squire's "linked speeches long drawn out." He always glided by the honest man's station, seemingly in an exceeding hurry, with a, "Ah, my dear Sir, how do you do? How delighted I am to see you!—and your incomparable daughter?—Oh, there she is!—pardon me, dear Sir—you see my attraction—au plaisir!"
Lucy, indeed, who never forgot any one, (except herself occasionally,) sought her father's retreat as often as she was able; but her engagements were so incessant, that she no sooner lost one partner, than she was claimed and carried off by another. However, the Squire bore his solitude
