Varney, with a sharp, searching look.

There was a deeper and steadier flash than usual from Percival's dark
eyes, and a manlier glow over his cheek, at Varney's question. But he
was slow in answering; and when he did so, his manner had all its wonted
mixture of graceful bashfulness and gay candour.

"Our rise does not always depend on ourselves. We are not all born
great, nor do we all have 'greatness thrust on us.'"

"One can be what one likes, with your fortune," said Varney; and there
was a growl of envy in his voice.

"What, be a painter like you! Ha, ha!"

"Faith," said Varney, "at least, if you could paint at all, you would
have what I have not,--praise and fame."

Percival pressed kindly on Varney's arm. "Courage! you will get justice
some day."

Varney shook his head. "Bah! there is no such thing as justice; all are
underrated or overrated. Can you name one man who you think is estimated
by the public at his precise value? As for present popularity, it
depends on two qualities, each singly, or both united,--cowardice and
charlatanism; that is, servile compliance with the taste and opinion of
the moment, or a quack's spasmodic efforts at originality. But why bore
you on such matters? There are things more attractive round us. A good
ankle that, eh? Why, pardon me, it is strange, but you don't seem to
care much for women?"