citizens." In vain Harry urged that he was outraging grammar. Mr.
Waverton did not believe him, did not want to believe him--the same
thing. Mr. Waverton was convinced that he had an insight into the soul of
Horace which Harry's pedantic eyes could not share. He explained, as one
explains to a dull child, the rare poetic beauty of the sentiment which
he had produced. The hero whom Horace was celebrating, you know, was the
man superior to the common herd. Now common men (as even Harry might be
aware) are all overbearing. It is this quality in the vulgar which most
distresses fine souls (like Mr. Waverton) who desire nothing but their
just rights.

"I dare say it is," Harry yawned. "If Horace had wanted to mean that, he
would have said so."

"I often think, Harry, you dry scholars have no sense for the thought of
a poet," said Mr. Waverton elegantly, and lay back in his chair and
surveyed Harry.

He was a handsome lad and knew how to set it off. He had height and
bulk--almost too much of that indeed, and so made light of it by a
careless, lounging ease. At this time he was only twenty-two, but of a
precocious maturity. He had the self-possession--as well as the
full-bottomed wig--of experience and worldly wisdom, and would have liked
to hear you say so. In its dark aquiline style his face was finely
moulded and imposing, and already it had a massive gravity. "A mighty
grand fellow indeed," said Lady Dorchester once, "if only his mouth had
grown since he was a baby." It has to be admitted that Mr. Waverton's
mouth, a small, pretty feature, was oddly assorted with the haughty
manner in which the rest of him was constructed. The ladies who lamented
that were, for the most part, consoled by his eyes--large, dark eyes of a