There were no regular “hops” at the Brant House, but dancing in a quiet way every evening to a flute, violin, and violoncello, played by some of the waiters.  For a time Burnham and Salsbury did not mingle much in these festivities, but loitered about the halls and piazzas, very elegantly dressed and barbered (Thomas was an unrivalled coiffeur), and apparently somewhat ennuye.

That two well-made, full-grown, intelligent, and healthy young men should lead such a life as this for an entire summer might surprise one of a more active temperament.  The aimlessness and vacancy of an existence devoted to no earthly purpose save one’s own comfort must soon weary any man who knows what is the meaning of real, earnest life—­life with a battle to be fought and a victory to be won.  But these elegant young gentlemen comprehended nothing of all that:  they had been born with golden spoons in their mouths, and educated only to swallow the delicately insipid lotos-honey that flows inexhaustibly from such shining spoons.  Clothes, complexions, polish of manner, and the avoidance of any sort of shock were the simple objects of their solicitude.

I do not know that I have any serious quarrel with such fellows, after all.  They have strong virtues.  They are always clean; and your rough diamond, though manly and courageous as Coeur de Lion, is not apt to be scrupulously nice in his habits.  Affability is another virtue.  The Salsbury and Burnham kind of man bears malice toward no one, and is disagreeable only when assailed by some hammer-and-tongs utilitarian.  All he asks is to be permitted to idle away his pleasant life unmolested.  Lastly, he is extremely ornamental.  We all like to see pretty things; and I am sure that Charley Burnham, in his fresh white duck suit, with his fine, thoroughbred face—­gentle as a girl’s—­shaded by a snowy Panama, his blonde moustache carefully pointed, his golden hair clustering in the most picturesque possible waves, his little red neck-ribbon—­the only bit of color in his dress—­tied in a studiously careless knot, and his pure, untainted gloves of pearl gray or lavender, was, if I may be allowed the expression, just as pretty as a picture.  And Ned Salsbury was not less “a joy forever,” according to the dictum of the late Mr. Keats.  He was darker than Burnham, with very black hair, and a moustache worn in the manner the French call triste, which became him, and increased the air of pensive melancholy that distinguished his dark eyes, thoughtful attitudes, and slender figure.  Not that he was in the least degree pensive or melancholy, or that he had cause to be; quite the contrary; but it was his style, and he did it well.

These two butterflies sat, one afternoon, upon the piazza, smoking very large cigars, lost, apparently, in profoundest meditation.  Burnham, with his graceful head resting upon one delicate hand, his clear blue eyes full of a pleasant light, and his face warmed by a calm, unconscious smile, might have been revolving some splendid scheme of universal philanthropy.  The only utterance, however, forced from him by the sublime thoughts that permeated his soul, was the emission of a white rolling volume of fragrant smoke, accompanied by two words:  “Dooced hot!”