icitous
moods in which our animal spirits search and carry up, as it were,
to the surface, our intellectual gifts and acquisitions. He conversed
generally and happily; but once, when he turned his eyes to appeal to
Lady Florence for her opinion on some point in discussion, he caught her
gaze fixed upon him with an expression that checked the current of his
gaiety, and cast him into a curious and bewildered reverie. In that gaze
there was earnest and cordial admiration; but it was mixed with so much
mournfulness, that the admiration lost its eloquence, and he who noticed
it was rather saddened than flattered.

After dinner, when Maltravers sought the drawing-rooms, he found
them filled with the customary snob of good society. In one corner he
discovered Castruccio Cesarini, playing on a guitar, slung across his
breast with a blue riband. The Italian sang well; many young ladies were
grouped round him, amongst others Florence Lascelles. Maltravers,
fond as he was of music, looked upon Castruccio's performance as a
disagreeable exhibition. He had a Quixotic idea of the dignity of
talent; and though himself of a musical science, and a melody of voice
that would have thrown the room into ecstasies, he would as soon have
turned juggler or tumbler for polite amusement, as contend for the
bravos of a drawing-room. It was because he was one of the proudest men
in the world, that Maltravers was one of the least _vain_. He did
not care a rush for applause in small things. But Cesarini would have
summoned the whole world to see him play at push-pin, if he thought the
played it well.

"Beautiful! divine! charming!" cried the young ladies, as Cesarini
ceased; and Maltravers observed that Florence praised more earnestly
than the rest, and that Cesarini's dark eye sparkled, and his pale cheek
flushed with unwonted brilliancy. Florence turned to Maltravers, and the
Italian, following her eyes, frowned darkly.

"You know the Signor Cesarini," said Florence, joining Maltravers. "He
is an interesting and gifted person."

"Unquestionably. I grieve to see him wasting his talents upon a soil
that may yield a few short-lived flowers, without one useful plant or
productive fruit."

"He enjoys the passing hour, Mr. Maltravers; and sometimes, when I see
the mortifications that await sterner labour, I think he is right."

"Hush!" said Maltravers; "his eyes are on us--he is listening
breathlessly for every word you utter. I fear that you hav