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 have made an
unconscious conquest of a poet's heart; and if so, he purchases the
enjoyment of the passing hour at a fearful price."

"Nay," said Lady Florence, indifferently, "he is one of those to whom