I was now pretty well tried of Garrett Park. Lady Roseville was going to
H--t--d, where I also had an invitation. Lord Vincent meditated an
excursion to Paris. Mr. Davison had already departed. Miss Trafford had
been gone, God knows how long, and I was not at all disposed to be left,
like "the last rose of summer," in single blessedness at Garrett Park.
Vincent, Wormwood, and myself, all agreed to leave on the same day.

The morning of our departure arrived. We sat down to breakfast as usual.
Lord Vincent's carriage was at the door; his groom was walking about his
favourite saddle horse.

"A beautiful mare that is of your's," said I, carelessly looking at it,
and reaching across the table to help myself to the pate de foie gras.

"Mare!" exclaimed the incorrigible punster, delighted with my mistake: "I
thought that you would have been better acquainted with your propria quoe
maribus."

"Humph!" said Wormwood, "when I look at you I am always at least reminded
of the as in praoesenti!"

Lord Vincent drew up and looked unutterable anger. Wormwood went on with
his dry toast, and Lady Roseville, who that morning had, for a wonder,
come down to breakfast, good naturedly took off the bear. Whether or not
his ascetic nature was somewhat mollified by the soft smiles and softer
voice of the beautiful countess, I cannot pretend to say; but he
certainly entered into a conversation with her, not much rougher than
that of a less gifted individual might have been. They talked of
literature, Lord Byron, converzaziones, and Lydia White. [Note: Written
before the death of that lady.]