That the hero of Palliser's story should so comport himself as to provide either diversion or cause for haughty displeasure would have been only a natural outcome of his ambitions. In a brief period of time, however, every young woman who might have expected to find herself an object of such ambitions realized that his methods of approach and attack were not marked by the usual characteristics of aspirants of his class. He evidently desired to see and be seen. He presented himself, as it were, for inspection and consideration, but while he was attentive, he did not press attentions upon any one. He did not make advances in the ordinary sense of the word. He never essayed flattering or even admiring remarks. He said queer things at which one often could not help but laugh, but he somehow wore no air of saying them with the intention of offering them as witticisms which might be regarded as allurements. He did not ogle, he did not simper or shuffle about nervously and turn red or pale, as eager and awkward youths have a habit of doing under the stress of unrequited admiration. In the presence of a certain slightingness of treatment, which he at the outset met with not infrequently, he conducted himself with a detached good nature which seemed to take but small account of attitudes less unoffending than his own. When the slightingness disappeared from sheer lack of anything to slight, he did not change his manner in any degree. “He is not in the least forward,” Beatrice Talchester said, the time arriving when she and her sisters occasionally talked him over with their special friends, the Granthams, “and he is not forever under one's feet, as the pushing sort usually is. Do you remember those rich people from the place they called Troy--the ones who took Burnaby for a year--and the awful eldest son who perpetually invented excuses for calling, bringing books and ridiculous things?” “This one never makes an excuse,” Amabel Grantham put in. “But he never declines an invitation. There is no doubt that he wants to see people,” said Lady Honora, with the pretty little nose and the dimples. She had ceased to turn up the pretty little nose, and she showed a dimple as she added: “Gwynedd is tremendously taken with him. She is teaching him to play croquet. They spend hours together.” “He's beginning to play a pretty good game,” said Gwynedd. “He's not stupid, at all events.” “I believe you are the first choice, if he is really choosing,” Amabel Grantham decided. “I should like to ask you a question.” “Ask it, by all means,” said Gwynedd. “Does he ever ask you to show him how to hold his mallet, and then do idiotic things, such as managing to touch your hand?” “Never,” was Gwynedd's answer. “The young man from Troy used to do it, and then beg pardon and turn red.”