Of the men who languidly gazed upon the gay and splendid scene from the windows of the Club, none seemed so interested as the man who leaned against the window-frame.  He appeared more than interested—­absorbed, indeed—­in the world without, and he looked bright and handsome enough, and charged enough with buoyant health, to be the ideal bridegroom of Nature in her springtide.

He was a dark man, tall and well built, with clear brown eyes.  His black hair (which was not cropped short, as is the fashion) had a lustrous softness, and at the same time an elastic bushiness, which nothing but the finest-tempered health can give; and his complexion, though tanned by exposure, had yet much of the smoothness of youth, save where the razor had passed upon his beard.  Thus seen, a little way off, he appeared a young man in his rosy twenties; on closer view and acquaintance, however, that superficial impression was contradicted by the set expression of his mouth and the calm observation and understanding of his eye, which spoke of ripe experience rather than of green hope.  He bore a very good English name—­Courtney; and he was believed to be rich.  There was no member of whom the Hyacinth Club was prouder than of him:  though he had done nothing, it was commonly believed he could do anything he chose.  No other was listened to with such attention, and there was nothing on which he could not throw a fresh and fascinating light.  He was a constant spring of surprise and interest.  While others were striving after income and reputation, he calmly and modestly, without obtrusion or upbraiding, held on his own way, with unsurpassable curiosity, to the discovery of all which life might have to reveal.  It was this, perhaps, as much as the charm of his manner and conversation, that made him so universal a favourite; for how could envy or malice touch a man who competed at no point with his fellows?

His immediate neighbours, as he thus stood by the window, were a pair of journalists, several scientific men, and an artist.

“Have you seen any of the picture-shows, Julius?” asked the painter, Kew.

Courtney slowly abstracted his gaze from without, and turned on his shoulder with the lazy, languid grace of a cat.

“No,” said he, in a half-absent tone; “I have just come up, and I’ve not thought of looking into picture-galleries yet.”

“Been in the country?” asked Kew.

“Yes, I’ve been in the country,” said Courtney, still as if his attention was elsewhere.

“It must be looking lovely,” said Kew.

“It is—­exquisite!” said Courtney, waking up at length to a full glow of interest.  “That’s why I don’t want to go and stare at pictures.  In the spring, to see the fresh, virginal, delicious green of a bush against an old dry brick wall, gives a keener pleasure than the best picture that ever was painted.”

“I thought,” said Kew, “you had a taste for Art; I thought you enjoyed it.”