digestion, bills
and other annoyances outrageously opposed to all our ideas of comfort,
yet inevitable and to be borne with as good grace as may be."

"What on earth is Tony doing at the Point?"

"He dresses well," returned Mr. Floyd reflectively: "his hands are soft,
his nails clean. I don't think he follows any occupation which demands
manual labor. I can generally tell a man's business by his hands or his
coat; but on Tony's irreproachable broadcloth not one shiny seam
discloses what particular grist-mill he turns."

"Of course he has no grist-mill," said Helen. "I thought he was a man of
fortune."

"I was the guardian of his youth," observed Mr. Floyd, "and when he was
twenty-one I paid over to him intact the sum of money left to him by his
father. It had originally been less than fifteen hundred dollars, but by
lying untouched for nine years at compound interest it had nearly
doubled. That was several years ago, and with the utmost frugality on
his part I can't see how he could have worn such decent coats on the
interest of that money all this time."

"But you put him into business half a dozen times," interposed my
mother: "I suppose he made money."

"No, he never made any money. The only way Tony will make money honestly
is by marrying a rich girl. Not that I assume him to be dishonest or a
sharper, for I do think him a gentleman, after the fashion of Sir
Fopling. He probably is considerably in debt, but floats himself from
all danger of sinking by speculation or the like. Five times I set him
at work to make his living: five times he was returned on my hands. His
character possesses all the drawbacks of great genius, without any of
its resources: he is proud, discontented, misunderstood, with a talent
for failure."

"Is he a suitor of Miss Lenox's?" I asked. "He was never in the habit of
admiring her."

"You can make up your mind," said Mr. Floyd with a shrug, thus
dismissing the subject.--"Helen, my child, looking at this young man
impartially and judicially, what do you think of him?" and he put his
hand on my shoulder.

We were at tea, which was always an informal meal at The Headlands.
Helen sat among the tea-cups, my mother had a little table by her sofa,
and Mr. Floyd and I walked about carrying cream and sugar and cakes. I
was on my way for a fresh cup when this question was put, and I went up
to Helen and sat down beside her.

"Impartially and judicially," said I, "what do you think of me?"