But though Catherine declined to add to the number of Harry Stanhope’s worshippers, she appeared, like the other women, to be drawn into his court where he stood the centre, next to Mrs. Hilliard herself, of the bright stirring drawing-room at the Meadows. Catherine’s imagination tempted her to speculate, with however little hope, on the diversities and vagaries of human character. A new type arrested her, as an unknown specimen stops and holds fast the naturalist. Harry was strange to her in the sparkle of his bold thoughtlessness and inconsiderateness and pure and simple egotism. The qualities were all naturally repugnant to her, still they attracted her curiosity for a time, as qualities which she had never met before, and might never meet again, in the same degree or combination. Catherine, too, looked and listened as if carried away with the charm when Harry, nothing loth, figured as the hero of the hour, recounted his youthful exploits by flood and field, volunteered, without a grain of shyness or scruple as to the acceptableness of his service, to be at the beck of any and every woman present—for Harry was no languid, supercilious, fine gentleman. He was a gallant cavalier to the heart’s core. He only asked to be allowed to help every woman, while he helped himself liberally to the first place in her regard. But he was the reverse of the odious cowardly personage—we may trust he figures more largely in fiction than in real life—the lady-killer, professed or unprofessed. All was open and above board with Harry; and upon the whole his attentions were too impartial to have much individuality or to be invested with special danger. It seemed as if he consented to be heard or seen for the entire sex’s benefit, as he span his yarns—not particularly original, wise or witty, but with an indescribable charm in them, due to their fresh lightheartedness—of his school and college frolics: his prowess at ‘hare and hounds;’ how he was a bogie to his dame; his surreptitious introduction of ‘Pin Him’ into his quad; the row he had been in when town fought gown; the wrinkle he had been able to give such an awfully clever fellow as Tyler in making up for the private theatricals at the Wests—whose place was near Harry’s cousins. Then he sang his songs whenever they were wanted; songs less aggressively warlike and sportsmanlike than the songs of Jack Dadd and the other peaceful counter-jumpers—sometimes love songs, or songs expressing passionate memories, and tender yearnings, with fiery depths, and pathetic echoes which Harry Stanhope had never fathomed, but which yet thrilled the listeners as the words and airs were given by the full flexible young voice. It looked as if Harry were carrying all before him, and winning each heart—including that of dreamy, dissatisfied Catherine Hilliard.