“So much the better for him, probably; at all events, so much the better for his friends, and all who are to associate with him.” Here he looked fixedly at Upton, who smiled a most courteous acquiescence in the opinion,--a politeness that made poor Harcourt perfectly ashamed of his own rudeness, and he continued hurriedly,-- “He'll have abundance of money. The life Glencore leads here will be like a long minority to him. A fine old name and title, and the deuce is in it if he can't rub through life pleasantly enough with such odds.” “I believe you are right, after all, Harcourt,” said Upton, sighing, and now speaking in a far more natural tone; “it _is_ 'rubbing through' with the best of us, and no more!” “If you mean that the process is a very irksome one, I enter my dissent at once,” broke in Harcourt. “I 'm not ashamed to own that I like life prodigiously; and if I be spared to say so, I 'm sure I 'll have the same story to tell fifteen or twenty years hence; and yet I 'm not a genius!” “No,” said Upton, smiling a bland assent. “Nor a philosopher either,” said Harcourt, irritated at the acknowledgment. “Certainly not,” chimed in Upton, with another smile. “Nor have I any wish to be one or the other,” rejoined Harcourt, now really provoked. “I know right well that if I were in trouble or difficulty to-morrow,--if I wanted a friend to help me with a loan of some thousand pounds,--it is not to a genius or a philosopher I 'd look for the assistance.” It is ever a chance shot that explodes a magazine, and so is it that a random speech is sure to hit the mark that has escaped all the efforts of skilful direction. Upton winced and grew pale at these last words, and he fixed his penetrating gray eyes upon the speaker with a keenness all his own. Harcourt, however, bore the look without the slightest touch of uneasiness. The honest Colonel had spoken without any hidden meaning, nor had he the slightest intention of a personal application in his words. Of this fact Upton appeared soon to be convinced, for his features gradually recovered their wonted calmness. “How perfectly right you are, my dear Harcourt,” said he, mildly. “The man who expects to be happier by the possession of genius is like one who would like to warm himself through a burning-glass.” “Egad, that is a great consolation for us slow fellows,” said Harcourt, laughing; “and now what say you to a game at _écarté_; for I believe it is just the one solitary thing I am more than your match in?” “I accept inferiority in a great many others,” said Upton, blandly; “but I must decline the challenge, for I have a letter to write, and our post here starts at daybreak.” “Well, I'd rather carry the whole bag than indite one of its contents,” said the Colonel, rising; and, with a hearty shake of the hand, he left the room. A letter was fortunately not so great an infliction to Upton, who opened his desk at once, and with a rapid hand traced the following lines:--