the author of "The Heart of Gold," who had no
such vulgar "mug" either; and there was no intrinsic inferiority in
being a bit inordinately, and so it might have seemed a bit strikingly,
black-browed instead of being fair as the morning. Again while his new
friend delivered himself our own tried in vain to place him; he
indulged in plenty of pleasant, if rather restlessly headlong sound, the
confessed incoherence of a happy mortal who had always many things "on,"
and who, while waiting at any moment for connections and consummations,
had fallen into the way of talking, as they said, all artlessly, and
a trifle more betrayingly, against time. He would always be having
appointments, and somehow of a high "romantic" order, to keep, and the
imperfect punctualities of others to wait for--though who would be of
a quality to make such a pampered personage wait very much our young
analyst could only enjoy asking himself. There were women who might be
of a quality--half a dozen of those perhaps, of those alone, about the
world; our friend was as sure of this, by the end of four minutes, as if
he knew all about it.

After saying he would send him the book the young Lord indeed dropped
that subject; he had asked where he might send it, and had had an "Oh,
I shall remember!" on John's mention of an hotel; but he had made no
further dash into literature, and it was ten to one that this would be
the last the distinguished author might hear of the volume. Such again
was a note of these high existences--that made one content to ask
of them no whit of other consistency than that of carrying off the
particular occasion, whatever it might be, in a dazzle of amiability
and felicity and leaving _that_ as a sufficient trace of their passage.
Sought and achieved consistency was but an angular, a secondary motion;
compared with the air of complete freedom it might have an effect
of deformity. There was no placing this figure of radiant ease, for
Berridge, in any relation that didn't appear not good enough--that is
among the relations that hadn't been too good for Berridge himself. He
was all right where he was; the great Gloriani somehow made that law;
his house, with his supreme artistic position, was good enough for any
one, and to-night in especial there were charming people, more charming
than our friend could recall from any other scene, as the natural
train or circle, as he might say, of such a presence. For an instant he
thought he had