manner and conversation, that made him so universal a favourite; for how
could envy or malice touch a man who competed at no point with his
fellows?

His immediate neighbours, as he thus stood by the window, were a pair of
journalists, several scientific men, and an artist.

"Have you seen any of the picture-shows, Julius?" asked the painter,
Kew.

Courtney slowly abstracted his gaze from without, and turned on his
shoulder with the lazy, languid grace of a cat.

"No," said he, in a half-absent tone; "I have just come up, and I've not
thought of looking into picture-galleries yet."

"Been in the country?" asked Kew.

"Yes, I've been in the country," said Courtney, still as if his
attention was elsewhere.

"It must be looking lovely," said Kew.

"It is--exquisite!" said Courtney, waking up at length to a full glow of
interest. "That's why I don't want to go and stare at pictures. In the
spring, to see the fresh, virginal, delicious green of a bush against an
old dry brick wall, gives a keener pleasure than the best picture that
ever was painted."

"I thought," said Kew, "you had a taste for Art; I thought you enjoyed