He was not proud of his birth, nor fortune, but he was proud of himself; and, next to that pride, he was proud of being a gentleman.

He had an exceeding horror of all common people; a Claverhouse sort of supreme contempt to "puddle blood;" his lip seemed to wear scorn as a garment; a lofty and stern self-admiration, rather than self-love, sat upon his forehead as on a throne.

He had, as it were, an awe of himself; his thoughts were so many mirrors of Viscount Borodaile dressed en dieu.

His mind was a little Versailles, in which self sat like Louis XIV., and saw nothing but pictures of its self, sometimes as Jupiter and sometimes as Apollo.

What marvel then, that Lord Borodaile was a very unpleasant companion?
for every human being he had "something of contempt." His eye was always eloquent in disdaining; to the plebeian it said, "You are not a gentleman;" to the prince, "You are not Lord Borodaile." Yet, with all this, he had his good points.