tes and
inspirations, and a great deal too lazy ever to carry them into effect.
He was an artist, and he had his studio where he began fifty gigantic
deeds at once in the way of pictures, and seldom finished one. Nature
had intended him for an artist, not a country squire; he cared little
for riding, or hunting, or fishing, or farming, any of the things
wherein country squires delight; he liked better to lie on the warm
grass, with the summer wind stirring in the trees over his head, and
smoke his Turkish pipe, and dream the lazy hours away. If he had been
born a poor man, he might have been a clever painter; as it was, he was
only an idle, listless, elegant, languid dreamer, and so likely to
remain until the end of the chapter.

Lady Thetford's ball was a very brilliant affair, and a famous success.
Until far into the gray and dismal dawn, "flute, violin, bassoon," woke
sweet echoes in the once gloomy rooms, where so long silence had
reigned. Half the county had been invited, and half the county were
there; hosts of pretty, rosy girls, in laces and roses, and sparkling
jewelry, baited their dainty traps, and tried "becks and nods, and
wreathed smiles," for the special delectation of the handsome, courtly
heir of Thetford Towers.

But the heir of Thetford Towers, with gracious greetings for all, yet
walked through the rose-strewn pitfalls quite secure, while the starry
face of Aileen Jocyln shone on him in its pale, high-bred beauty. He had
not danced much; he had an antipathy to dancing as he had to exertion of
any kind, and presently he stood leaning against a slender white column,
watching her in a state of lazy admiration. He could see quite as
clearly as his mother how eminently proper a marriage with the heiress
of Col. Jocyln would be; he knew by instinct, too, how much she desired
it; and it was easy enough, looking at her in her girlish pride and
beauty, to fancy himself very much in love; and, though anything but a
coxcomb, Sir Rupert Thetford was perfectly aware of his own handsome
face and dreamy artist's eyes, and his fifteen thousand a year, and
lengthy pedigree, and had a hazy idea that the handsome Aileen would not
say no when he spoke.

"And I'll speak to-night, by Jove!" thought the young baronet, as near
being enthusiastic as was in his nature, while he watched her, the
brilliant centre of a brilliant group. "How exquisite she is in her
statuesque grace, my peerless Aileen, the ideal of my dreams.