His age was as
great a mystery as anything else. He dressed still like a boy, yet some
vowed he was eighty. He must have been Salathiel. Property he never had,
and yet he contrived to live; connection he was not born with, yet he
was upheld by a set. He never played, yet he was the most skilful dealer
going. He did the honours of a _rouge et noir_ table to a miracle; and
looking, as he thought, most genteel in a crimson waistcoat and a
gold chain, raked up the spoils, or complacently announced apres. Lord
Castlefort had few secrets from him: he was the jackal to these prowling
beasts of prey; looked out for pigeons, got up little parties to
Richmond or Brighton, sang a song when the rest were too anxious to make
a noise, and yet desired a little life, and perhaps could cog a die,
arrange a looking-glass, or mix a tumbler.
Unless the loss of an occasional napoleon at a German watering-place
is to be so stigmatised, gaming had never formed one of the numerous
follies of the Duke of St. James. Rich, and gifted with a generous,
sanguine, and luxurious disposition, he had never been tempted by
the desire of gain, or as some may perhaps maintain, by the desire of
excitement, to seek assistance or enjoyment in a mode of life which
stultifies all our fine fancies, deadens all our noble emotions, and
mortifies all our beautiful aspirations.
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