n
close by the crossing, and looking round, as for some one to hold his
horse, could discover no loiterer worthy that honour except the solitary
Beck. So young was the rider that he seemed still a boy. On his smooth
countenance all that most prepossesses in early youth left its witching
stamp. A smile, at once gay and sweet, played on his lips. There was a
charm, even in a certain impatient petulance, in his quick eye and the
slight contraction of his delicate brows. Almaviva might well have been
jealous of such a page. He was the beau-ideal of Cherubino. He held up
his whip, with an arch sign, to the sweeper. "Follow, my man," he said,
in a tone the very command of which sounded gentle, so blithe was
the movement of the lips, and so silvery the easy accent; and without
waiting, he cantered carelessly down Pall Mall.

The sweeper cast a rueful glance at his melancholy domain. But he
had gained but little that day, and the offer was too tempting to be
rejected. He heaved a sigh, shouldered his broom, and murmuring to
himself that he would give her a last brush before he retired for the
night, he put his long limbs into that swinging, shambling trot which
characterizes the motion of those professional jackals who, having once
caught sight of a groomless rider, fairly hunt him down, and appear when
he least expects it, the instant he dismounts. The young rider lightly
swung himself from his sleek, high-bred gray at the door of one of the
clubs in St. James's Street, patted his horse's neck, chucked the rein
to the sweeper, and sauntered into the house, whistling musically,--if
not from want of thought, certainly from want of care.

As he entered the club, two or three men, young indeed, but much older,
to appearance at least, than himself, who were dining together at the
same table, nodded to him their friendly greeting.

"Ah, Perce," said one, "we have only just sat down; here is a seat for
you."

The boy blushed shyly as he accepted the proposal, and the young men
made room for him at the table, with a smiling alacrity which showed
that his shyness was no hindrance to his popularity.

"Who," said an elderly dandy, dining apart with one of his
contemporaries,--"who is that lad? One ought not to admit such mere boys
into the club."

"He is the only surviving son of an old friend of ours," answered the
other, dropping his eyeglass,--"young Percival St. John."

"St. John! What! Vernon St. John's son?"

"Yes."

"H