animated, lively, and various,--the talk common with young idlers; of
horses, and steeplechases, and opera-dancers, and reigning beauties, and
good-humoured jests at each other. In all this babble there was a
freshness about Percival St. John's conversation which showed that, as
yet, for him life had the zest of novelty. He was more at home about
horses and steeplechases than about opera-dancers and beauties and the
small scandals of town. Talk on these latter topics did not seem to
interest him, on the contrary, almost to pain. Shy and modest as a girl,
he coloured or looked aside when his more hardened friends boasted of
assignations and love-affairs. Spirited, gay, and manly enough in all
really manly points, the virgin bloom of innocence was yet visible in his
frank, charming manner; and often, out of respect for his delicacy, some
hearty son of pleasure stopped short in his narrative, or lost the point
of his anecdote. And yet so lovable was Percival in his good humour, his
naivete, his joyous entrance into innocent joy, that his companions were
scarcely conscious of the gene and restraint he imposed on them. Those
merry, dark eyes and that flashing smile were conviviality of themselves.
They brought with them a contagious cheerfulness which compensated for
the want of corruption.

Night had set in. St. John's companions had departed to their several
haunts, and Percival himself stood on the steps of the club, resolving
that he would join the crowds that swept through the streets to gaze on
the illuminations, when he perceived Beck (still at the rein of his
dozing horse), whom he had quite forgotten till that moment. Laughing at
his own want of memory, Percival put some silver into Beck's hand,--more
silver than Beck had ever before received for similar service,--and
said,--

"Well, my man, I suppose I can trust you to take my horse to his