bitterness on the time when they tried to impress a
dull world, and have no feeling of hatred for those who have done
better, but will marry and bring up children, and be Philistines and
happy. Youth has only one season--luckily for a good many of us, who
are decent fellows enough as long as we are content to be ourselves,
and can do without affectation.

CHAPTER XVII.

"UNDER BONNYBELL'S WINDOW-PANES."

But there was something more in Victor Heron's feeling of depression
that night than came from the mere fact that he had found a few young
artists not quite such heroic spirits as he thought they ought to be.
It was the demeanor of Herbert Blanchet that especially spoiled the
evening for him. In truth the head of the poet was not a strong one,
and was very easily turned by any little stimulant of whatever kind.
His volume of poems this night affected all his being. He felt sure
that he was at last about to force himself upon the recognition of the
world, and he made up his mind that Miss Grey was in love with him. He
conveyed hints of his approaching good fortune to his companions; and
he received at first with benign courtesy their compliments on the
success that seemed to await him in life and love. But when some too
forward person suggested that he could possibly guess at the name of
the heiress whose heart and hand were to bless the lucky poet, then
Blanchet became gravely and even severely dignified.

"You will excuse me, Mellifont," he said grandly, the brandy and soda
having, as was the wont of any such liquor taken by our poor poet, gone
straight upward to his head--"you will excuse me, I am sure, if I say
this is not exactly a subject for jocularity; or even, permit me to
add, for general conversation, although among friends. My distinguished
friend, Mr. Heron, will, I am sure, exactly appreciate what I say.
Things may not be so completely settled as to make it proper that they
should be spoken of as if--as if in short they were settled; you will
excuse me, Mellifont, my dear fellow--you will excuse me."

Victor Heron thought it time for him to go, and rose accordingly, and
Mr. Blanchet insisted on accompanying him down the stairs and to the
door of the house.

"I thought it right, you know," the over-dignified poet said, "to put a
stop to that sort of thing. Men have no right to make such inferences.
I should have no right myself to assume that things were settled in
that sort of way. It is not jus