is always at private views, and privileged shows of all kinds; and she
contrives to squeeze herself in at a State ball or a concert about once
in two years; but any one who can consider Lady Kirkbank good style must
have a very curious idea of what a lady ought to be.' 'Lady Kirkbank is
a warm-hearted, nice creature,' said a diplomatist of high rank, and one
of her particular friends, 'but her manners are decidedly--continental!'

About Sir George, society, adverse or friendly, was without strong
opinions. His friends, the men who shot over his Scotch moor, and filled
the spare rooms in his villa at Cannes, and loaded his drag for Sandown
or Epsom, and sponged upon him all the year round, talked of him as 'an
inoffensive old party,' 'a cheery soul,' 'a genial old boy,' and in like
terms of approval. That half of society which did not visit in Arlington
Street, in whose nostrils the semi-aristocratic, semi-artistic,
altogether Bohemian little dinners, the suppers after the play, the
small hours devoted to Nap or Poker, had an odour as of sulphur, the
reek of Tophet--even this half of the great world was fain to admit that
Sir George was harmless. He had never had an idea beyond the realms of
sport; he had never had a will of his own outside his stable. To shoot
pigeons at Hurlington or Monaco, to keep half a dozen leather-platers,
and attend every race from the Craven to the Leger, to hunt four days a
week, when he was allowed to spend a winter in England, and to saunter
and sleep away all the hours which could not be given to sport,
comprised Sir George's idea of existence. He had never troubled himself
to consider whether there might not possibly be a better way of getting
rid of one's life. He was as God had made him, and was perfectly
satisfied with himself and the universe; save at such times as when a
favourite horse went lame, or his banker wrote to tell him that his
account was overdrawn.