"He is a careless, dashing prodigal, whatever else; and I never look at him without thinking of Hogarth's picture of the 'Miser's Heir.' What say you to him, Blake, with your considering face? Come, out with your wisdom! You can make a sermon out of a stone, you know." "May be so. A stone might furnish matter for discourse, as well as other things; but I am not in the humor for preaching to-day. I can't help being sorry for the scapegrace." "So like you, Contradiction! Sorry for him! And, pray, what for?--_because_ he is the handsomest, most aristocratical-looking person one almost ever met with--_because_ he is really clever, and can do whatever he pleases in no time (might have taken a double-first at Oxford easily, Penrose says, if he would)--or _because_ he has got countless heaps of gold at his banker's; and nobody to ask him a why or a wherefore; may do, in all things, just what he likes--or _because_ he can drink like a fish, dance like Vestris, ride like Chiffney; be up all night and about all day, and never tire, be never out of spirits, never dull? Harry Blake! Who'll come and hear Harry Blake? He is going to give his reasons, why a man who has every good thing of the world is most especially to be pitied." "I am going to do no such thing. The reasons are too obvious. I deal not in truisms." "Well, all I know is, that he won the steeple-chase yesterday, and to-day he beat Pincent, the champion, at billiards. To-morrow he goes to the ball at Bicester; and see if he does not beat us all at dancing there, and bear away the belle, whoever the belle may be--though the blood of a stockbroker does run in his veins." "His blood may be as good as another's, for aught I know," said the philosopher; "but I doubt whether the rearing be." "It is the blood, depend upon it. Blake, you are quite right," said a pale, affected young man, who stood by, and was grandson to an earl; "the blood--these upstarts are vulgar, irremediably, do what they will." "That not quite," said Harry Blake. "I have seen as great cubs as ever walked behind a plough-tail who would call cousins with the Conqueror, Warndale. But a something there is of difference after all; and, in my opinion, it lies in the tradition. Wealth and distinction are like old wine, the better for keeping. Time adds a value, mellows, gives a certain body--an inappreciable something. Newly-acquired wealth and distinction is like new wine--trashy. I rather pity the man who possesses them, _therefore_." "And I do not"--"And I do not,"--and "A fig for your philosophy!" resounded from all sides of the table. The philosopher looked on with his quiet smile, and added: