Charles Annesley was about thirty. He had inherited
from his father, a younger brother, a small estate; and, though heir
to a wealthy earldom, he had never abused what the world called 'his
prospects.' Yet his establishment, his little house in Mayfair, his
horses, his moderate stud at Melton, were all unique, and everything
connected with him was unparalleled for its elegance, its invention, and
its refinement. But his manner was his magic. His natural and subdued
nonchalance, so different from the assumed non-emotion of a mere dandy;
his coldness of heart, which was hereditary, not acquired; his cautious
courage, and his unadulterated self-love, had permitted him to mingle
much with mankind without being too deeply involved in the play of their
passions; while his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly revealed
those weaknesses to him which his delicate satire did not spare, even
while it refrained from wounding. All feared, marry admired, and none
hated him. He was too powerful not to dread, too dexterous not to
admire, too superior to hate. Perhaps the great secret of his manner
was his exquisite superciliousness, a quality which, of all, is the most
difficult to manage.
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