said to present the phenomenon of a man without conscience at all.
Unlike Conrad, he did not "know himself a villain;" all that he knew of
himself was that he was a remarkably clever fellow, without prejudice or
superstition. That, with all his gifts, he had not succeeded better in
life, he ascribed carelessly to the surpassing wisdom of his philosophy.
He could have done better if he had enjoyed himself less; but was not
enjoyment the be-all and end-all of this little life? More often,
indeed, in the moods of his bitter envy, he would lay the fault upon the
world. How great he could have been, if he had been rich and high-born!
Oh, he was made to spend, not to save,--to command, not to fawn! He was
not formed to plod through the dull mediocrities of fortune; he must toss
up for the All or the Nothing! It was no control over himself that made
Varney now turn his thoughts from certain grave designs on Percival St.
John to the brutal debauchery of his three companions,--rather, he then
yielded most to his natural self. And when the morning star rose over
the night he passed with low profligates and venal nymphs; when over the
fragments on the board and emptied bottles and drunken riot dawn gleamed
and saw him in all the pride of his magnificent organization and the
cynicism of his measured vice, fair, fresh, and blooming amidst those
maudlin eyes and flushed cheeks and reeling figures, laughing hideously
over the spectacle he had provoked, and kicking aside, with a devil's
scorn, the prostrate form of the favoured partner whose head had rested
on his bosom, as alone with a steady step, he passed the threshold and
walked into the fresh, healthful air,--Gabriel Varney enjoyed the fell
triumph of his hell-born vanity, and revelled in his sentiment of
superiority and power.

Meanwhile, on quitting Varney young Percival strolled on as the whim
directed him. Turning down the Haymarket, he gained the colonnade of the
Opera House. The crowd there was so dense that his footsteps were