Many turned to look again, but it was not to remark the
dress or the slight swagger; an expression of reckless, sinister power
in the countenance, something of vigour and determination even in that
very walk, foppish as it would have been in most, made you sink all
observation of the mere externals, in a sentiment of curiosity towards
the man himself. He seemed a somebody,--not a somebody of conventional
rank, but a somebody of personal individuality; an artist, perhaps a
poet, or a soldier in some foreign service, but certainly a man whose
name you would expect to have heard of. Amongst the common mob of
passengers he stood out in marked and distinct relief.

"I feel at home in a crowd," said Varney. "Do you understand me?"

"I think so," answered Percival. "If ever I could become distinguished,
I, too, should feel at home in a crowd."

"You have ambition, then; you mean to become distinguished?" asked
Varney, with a sharp, searching look.

There was a deeper and steadier flash than usual from Percival's dark
eyes, and a manlier glow over his cheek, at Varney's question. But he
was slow in answering; and when he did so, his manner had all its wonted
mixture of graceful bashfulness and gay candour.

"Our rise does not always depend on ourselves. We are not all born
great, nor do we all have 'greatness thrust on us.'"

"One can be what one likes, with your fortune," said Varney; and there
was a growl of envy in his voice.

"What, be a painter like you! Ha, ha!"

"Faith," said Varney, "at least, if you could paint at all, you would
have what I have not,--praise and fame."

Percival pressed kindly on Varney's arm. "Courage! you will get justice
some day."

Varney shook his head. "Bah! there is no such thing as justice; all are
underrated or overrated. Can you name one man who you think is estimated
by the public at his precise value? As for present popularity, it
depends on two qualities, each singly, or both united,--cowardice and
charlatanism; that is, servile compliance with the taste and opinion of
the moment, or a quack's spasmodic efforts at originality. But why bore
you on such matters? There are things more attractive round us. A good
ankle that, eh? Why, pardon me, it is strange, but you don't seem to
care much for women?"

"Oh, yes, I do," said Percival, with a sly demureness. "I am very fond
of--my mother!"

"Very proper and filial," said Varney, laughing; "and does your love for
the sex stop ther