expression of his mouth and the calm observation and
understanding of his eye, which spoke of ripe experience rather than of
green hope. He bore a very good English name--Courtney; and he was
believed to be rich. There was no member of whom the Hyacinth Club was
prouder than of him: though he had done nothing, it was commonly
believed he could do anything he chose. No other was listened to with
such attention, and there was nothing on which he could not throw a
fresh and fascinating light. He was a constant spring of surprise and
interest. While others were striving after income and reputation, he
calmly and modestly, without obtrusion or upbraiding, held on his own
way, with unsurpassable curiosity, to the discovery of all which life
might have to reveal. It was this, perhaps, as much as the charm of his
manner and conversation, that made him so universal a favourite; for how
could envy or malice touch a man who competed at no point with his
fellows?

His immediate neighbours, as he thus stood by the window, were a pair of
journalists, several scientific men, and an artist.

"Have you seen any of the picture-shows, Julius?" asked the painter,
Kew.

Courtney slowly abstracted his gaze from without, and turned on his
shoulder with the lazy, languid grace of a cat.

"No," said he, in a half-absent tone; "I have just come up, and I've not
thought of looking into picture-galleries yet."

"Been in the country?" asked Kew.

"Yes, I've been in the country," said Courtney, still as if his
attention was elsewhere.

"It must be looking lovely," said Kew.

"It is--exquisite!" said Courtney, waking up at length to a full glow of
interest. "That's why I don't want to go and stare at pictures. In the
spring, to see the fresh, virginal, delicious green of a bush against an
old dry brick wall, gives a keener pleasure than the best picture that
ever was painted."

"I thought," said Kew, "you had a taste for Art; I thought you enjoyed
it."

"So I do, my dear fellow, but not now,--not at this particular present.
When I feel the warm sun on my back and breathe the soft air, I want no
more; they are more than Art can give--they are Nature, and, of course,
it goes without saying that Art can never compete with Nature in
creating human pleasure. I mean no disparagement of your work, Kew, or
any artist's work; but I can't endure Art except in winter, when
everything (almost) must be artificial to be endurable. A winter may
come