d Avenel emerged into
the light of day. He had been lucky in his costume--he felt it. It might
not suit every one in color or cut, but it suited him.

And this was his garb. On such occasions, what epic poet would not
describe the robe and tunic of a hero?

His surtout--in modern phrase, his frockcoat--was blue, a rich blue, a
blue that the royal brothers of George the Fourth were wont to favor.
And the surtout, single-breasted, was thrown open gallantly; and in the
second button-hole thereof was a moss rose. The vest was white, and the
trowsers a pearl-gray, with what tailors style "a handsome fall over the
boot." A blue and white silk cravat, tied loose and debonair; an ample
field of shirt front, with plain gold studs; a pair of lemon-colored kid
gloves, and a white hat, placed somewhat too knowingly on one side,
complete the description, and "give the world assurance of the man."
And, with his light, firm, well-shaped figure, his clear complexion, his
keen, bright eye, and features that bespoke the courage, precision, and
alertness of his character--that is to say, features bold, not large,
well-defined, and regular--you might walk long through town or country
before you would see a handsomer specimen of humanity than our friend
Richard Avenel.

Handsome, and feeling that he was handsome; rich, and feeling that he
was rich; lord of the fete, and feeling that he was lord of the fete,
Richard Avenel stepped out upon his lawn.

And now the dust began to rise along the road, and carriages, and gigs,
and chaises, and flies might be seen at near intervals and in quick
procession. People came pretty much about the same time--as they do in
the country--heaven reward them for it!

Richard Avenel was not quite at his ease at first in receiving his
guests, especially those whom he did not know by sight. But when the
dancing began, and he had secured the fair hand of Mrs. M'Catchley for
the initiatory quadrille, his courage and presence of mind returned to
him; and, seeing that many people whom he had not received at all seemed
to enjoy themselves very much, he gave up the attempt to receive those
who came after--and that was a great relief to all parties.

Meanwhile Leonard looked on the animated scene with a silent melancholy,
which he in vain endeavored to shake off--a melancholy more common among
very young men in such scenes than we are apt to suppose. Somehow or
other the pleasure was not congenial to him; he had no