Sir George would not have had the least pretension to be the glass of
fashion and the mould of form, which St. James's Street considered him,
if he had failed to give a large share of his thoughts while he supped
to the beautiful woman he had quitted. He knew very well what steps Lord
March or Tom Hervey would take, were either in his place; and though he
had no greater taste for an irregular life than became a man in his
station who was neither a Methodist nor Lord Dartmouth, he allowed his
thoughts to dwell, perhaps longer than was prudent, on the girl's
perfections, and on what might have been were his heart a little harder,
or the not over-rigid rule which he observed a trifle less stringent.
The father was dead. The girl was poor: probably her ideal of a gallant
was a College beau, in second-hand lace and stained linen, drunk on ale
in the forenoon. Was it likely that the fortress would hold out long, or
that the maiden's heart would prove to be more obdurate than Danäe's?

Soane, considering these things and his self-denial, grew irritable over
his Chambertin. He pictured Lord March's friend, the Rena, and found
this girl immeasurably before her. He painted the sensation she would
make and the fashion he could give her, and vowed that she was a Gunning
with sense and wit added; to sum up all, he blamed himself for a saint
and a Scipio. Then, late as it was, he sent for the landlord, and to get
rid of his thoughts, or in pursuance of them, inquired of that worthy if
Mr. Thomasson was in residence at Pembroke.

'Yes, Sir George, he is,' the landlord answered; and asked if he should
send for his reverence.

'No,' Soane commanded. 'If there is a chair to be had, I will go to
him.'