However, Hardie apologised as they were
dressing in the barge after the race; but the apology was so stiff, it
did not pave the way to an acquaintance.
Young Hardie, rising twenty-one, thought nothing human worthy of
reverence, but Intellect. Invited to dinner, on the same day, with the
Emperor of Russia, and with Voltaire, and with meek St. John, he would
certainly have told the coachman to put him down at Voltaire.
His quick eye detected Edward's character; but was not attracted by it:
says he to one of his adherents, "What a good-natured spoon that Dodd is;
Phoebus, what a name!" Edward, on the other hand, praised this brilliant
in all his letters, and recorded his triumphs and such of his witty
sayings as leaked through his own set, to reinvigorate mankind. This
roused Julia's ire. It smouldered through three letters; but burst out
when there was no letter; but Mrs. Dodd, meaning, Heaven knows, no harm,
happened to say meekly, _a propos_ of Edward, "You know, love, we cannot
all be young Hardies." "No, and thank Heaven," said Julia defiantly.
"Yes, mamma," she continued, in answer to Mrs.
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