At half past twelve the next day, Lord Henry Wotton walked from Curzon Street to the Albany to visit his uncle, Lord Fermor.
Lord Fermor was a friendly but somewhat rough old bachelor.
People outside fashionable society called him selfish because he did nothing useful for them. Society itself considered him generous because he spent money entertaining people who amused him.
His father had once been the British ambassador in Madrid. He eventually left diplomatic service after becoming offended that he had not been appointed ambassador to Paris—a position he believed he deserved because of his aristocratic birth, his laziness, his ability to write good English, and his great love of pleasure.
Lord Fermor had served as his father’s secretary and had resigned at the same time.
People had thought that decision foolish.
A few months later, however, he inherited his title and devoted himself seriously to the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing.