ill's mother.

"It is a pretty one," says my lord, surveying his fingers, with a
simper. "My Lord Hervey's glove and mine were of a size. Yes, my hand,
as you say, is more fitted for cards than for war. Yours, my Lady
Castlewood, is pretty dexterous, too. How I bless the day when you
bestowed it on my lamented father!" In this play of sarcasm, as in some
other games of skill, his lordship was not sorry to engage, having a
cool head, and being able to beat his family all round.

Madame de Bernstein, when she heard of Mr. Warrington's bevue, was
exceedingly angry, stormed, and scolded her immediate household; and
would have scolded George but she was growing old, and had not the
courage of her early days. Moreover, she was a little afraid of her
nephew, and respectful in her behaviour to him. "You will never make
your fortune at court, nephew!" she groaned, when, soon after his
discomfiture, the young gentleman went to wait upon her.

"It was never my wish, madam," said Mr. George, in a very stately
manner.

"Your wish was to help Harry? You might hereafter have been of service
to your brother, had you accepted the Duke's offer. Princes do not
love to have their favours refused, and I don't wonder that his Royal
Highness was offended."

"General Lambert said the same thing," George confessed, turning rather
red; "and I see now that I was wrong. But you must please remember that
I had never seen a court before, and I suppose I am scarce likely to
shine in one."

"I think possibly not, my good nephew," says the aunt, taking snuff.

"And what then?" asked George. "I never had ambition for that kind
of glory, and can make myself quite easy without it. When his Royal
Highness spoke to me--most kindly, as I own--my thought was, I shall
make a very bad soldier, and my brother would be a very good one. He has
a hundred good qualities for the profession, in which I am deficient;
and would have served a Commanding Officer far better than I ever could.
Say the Duke is in battle, and his horse is shot, as my poor chief's
was at home, would he not be better for a beast that had courage and
strength to bear him anywhere, than with one that could not carry his
weight?"

"Au fait. His Royal Highness's charger must be a strong one, my dear!"
says the old lady.

"Expende Hannibalem," mutters George, with a shrug. "Our Hannibal weighs
no trifle."

"I don't quite follow you, sir, and your Hannibal," the Baroness
remarks.

"Wh