ago?"

"Nothing I should like better;--and the theatre--are you fond of it now?
I think I have heard you say that it once made your favorite amusement."

"I still like it passably," answered Godolphin; but the gloss is gone
from the delusion. I am grown mournfully fastidious. I must have
excellent acting--an excellent play. A slight fault--a slight deviation
from nature--robs me of my content at the whole."

"The same fault in your character pervading all things," said Radclyffe,
half smiling.

"True," said Godolphin, yawning;--"but have you seen my new Canova?"

"No: I care nothing for statues, and I know nothing of the Fine Arts."

"What a confession!"

"Yes, it is a rare confession: but I suspect that the Arts, like truffles
and olives, are an acquired taste. People talk themselves into
admiration, where at first they felt indifference. But how can you,
Godolphin, with your talents, fritter away life on these baubles?"

"You are civil," said Godolphin, impatiently. "Allow me to tell you that
it is your objects I consider baubles. Your dull, plodding, wearisome
honours; a name in the newspapers--a place, perhaps, in the
Ministry--purchased by a sacrificed youth and a degraded manhood--a youth
in labour, a manhood in schemes. No, Radclyffe! give me the bright, the
glad sparkle of existence; and, ere the sad years of age and sickness, let