their names occurred in the conversation, he described them in an
epigrammatic sentence, or revealed their precise position, character,
calibre, by a curt dramatic trait. All this, too, without any excitement
of manner; on the contrary, with repose amounting almost to nonchalance.
If his address had any fault in it, it was rather a deficiency of
earnestness. A slight spirit of mockery played over his speech even when
you deemed him most serious; you were startled by his sudden transitions
from profound thought to poignant sarcasm. A very singular freedom from
passion and prejudice on every topic on which they treated, might be some
compensation for this want of earnestness, perhaps was its consequence.
Certainly it was difficult to ascertain his precise opinions on many
subjects, though his manner was frank even to abandonment. And yet
throughout his whole conversation, not a stroke of egotism, not a word,
not a circumstance escaped him, by which you could judge of his position
or purposes in life. As little did he seem to care to discover those of
his companion. He did not by any means monopolise the conversation. Far
from it; he continually asked questions, and while he received answers, or
had engaged his fellow-traveller in any exposition of his opinion or
feelings, he listened with a serious and fixed attention, looking
Coningsby in the face with a steadfast glance.

'I perceive,' said Coningsby, pursuing a strain of thought which the other
had indicated, 'that you have great confidence in the influence of
individual character. I also have some confused persuasions of that kind.
But it is not the Spirit of the Age.'

'The age does not believe in great men, because it does not possess any,'
replied the stranger. 'The Spirit of the Age is the very thing that a
great man changes.'