ersed. There
was a fierce earnestness in Glyndon's altered temper which awed and
silenced the quiet commonplace of his friend's character. He seemed to
take a malignant delight in persuading himself that the sober life of
the world was contemptible and base.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "how right you were to tell me to marry respectably;
to have a solid position; to live in decorous fear of the world and
one's wife; and to command the envy of the poor, the good opinion of
the rich. You have practised what you preach. Delicious existence! The
merchant's desk and the curtain lecture! Ha! ha! Shall we have another
night of it?"

Mervale, embarrassed and irritated, turned the conversation upon
Glyndon's affairs. He was surprised at the knowledge of the world which
the artist seemed to have suddenly acquired, surprised still more at
the acuteness and energy with which he spoke of the speculations most in
vogue at the market. Yes; Glyndon was certainly in earnest: he desired
to be rich and respectable,--and to make at least ten per cent for his
money!

After spending some days with the merchant, during which time he
contrived to disorganise all the mechanism of the house, to turn
night into day, harmony into discord, to drive poor Mrs. Mervale
half-distracted, and to convince her husband that he was horribly
hen-pecked, the ill-omened visitor left them as suddenly as he had
arrived. He took a house of his own; he sought the society of persons
of substance; he devoted himself to the money-market; he seemed to
have become a man of business; his schemes were bold and colossal; his
calculations rapid and profound. He startled Mervale by his energy,
and dazzled him by his success. Mervale began to envy him,--to be
discontented with his own regular and slow gains. When Glyndon bought or
sold in the funds, wealth rolled upon him like the tide of a sea; what
years of toil could not have done for him in art, a few months, by
a succession of lucky chances, did for him in speculation. Suddenly,
however, he relaxed his exertions; new objects of ambition seemed to
attract him. If he heard a drum in the streets, what glory like the
soldier's? If a new poem were published, what renown like the poet's?
He began works in literature, which promised great excellence, to throw
them aside in disgust. All at once he abandoned the decorous and formal
society he had courted; he joined himself, with young and riotous
associates; he plunged into the wild