"Idea!" exclaimed the pious philosopher. "Sir, give me leave to tell you
that no solid proof has ever been advanced of the existence of ideas:
they are a mere fiction and hypothesis. Nay, sir, 'hence arises
that scepticism which disgraces our philosophy of the mind.'
Ideas!--Findlater, you are a sceptic and an idealist."

"I?" cried the affrighted baronet; "upon my honour I am no such thing.
Everybody knows that I am a Christian, and--"

"Ah!" interrupted Callythorpe, with a solemn look, "everybody knows that
you are not one of those horrid persons,--those atrocious deists and
atheists and sceptics, from whom the Church and freedom of old England
have suffered such danger. I am a true Briton of the good old school;
and I confess, Mr. Trollolop, that I do not like to hear any opinions
but the right ones."

"Right ones being only those which Mr. Callythorpe professes," said
Clarence.

"Exactly so!" rejoined Mr. Callythorpe.

"The human mind," commenced Mr. Trollolop, stirring the fire; when
Clarence, who began to be somewhat tired of this conversation, rose.
"You will excuse me," said he, "but I am particularly engaged, and it
is time to dress. Harrison will get you tea or whatever else you are
inclined for."

"The human mind," renewed Trollolop, not heeding the interruption; and
Clarence forthwith left the room.

CHAPTER XXXII.

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 fore