At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street
over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if somewhat
rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it
derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by
Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our
ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had
retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not
being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was
fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his
dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his
father's secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was
thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set
himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely
nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it
was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention
to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself
for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was
that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own
hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during
which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a
hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he
bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that
the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was
a good deal to be said for his prejudices.