In the solitude of his studio, as he drew many pictures upon the canvas, and sang, and smoked, and scuffled across the floor to survey his work from a little distance—­and studied its progress through his open fist—­or as he lay sprawling upon his lounge in a cotton velvet Italian coat, inimitably befogged and bebuttoned—­and puffed profusely, following the intervolving smoke with his eye—­his meditations were always the same.  He was always thinking of Hope Wayne, and befooling himself with the mask of art, actually hiding himself from himself:  and not perceiving that when a man’s sole thought by day and night is a certain woman, and an endless speculation about the quality of her feeling for another man, he is simply a lover thinking of his mistress and a rival.

The infatuated painter suddenly became a great favorite in society.  He could not tell why.  Indeed there was no other secret than that he was a very pleasant young gentleman who made himself agreeable to young women, because he wished to know them and to paint them—­not, as he wickedly told Lawrence Newt, who winked and did not believe a word of it, because the human being is the noblest subject of art—­but only because he wished to show himself by actual experience how much more charming in character, and sprightly in intelligence, and beautiful in person and manner, Hope Wayne was than all other young women.

He proved that important point to his perfect satisfaction.  He punctually attended every meeting of the Round Table, as Lawrence called the meetings at which he and Arthur read and talked with Hope Wayne and Amy Waring, that he might lose no opportunity of pursuing the study.  He found Hope Wayne always friendly and generous.  She frankly owned that he had shown her many charming things in poetry that she had not known, and had helped her to form juster opinions.  It was natural she should think it was Arthur who had helped her.  She did not know that it was a very different person who had done the work—­a person whose name was Abel Newt.  For it was her changing character—­changing in consequence of her acquaintance with Abel—­which modified her opinions; and Arthur arrived upon her horizon at the moment of the change.

She was always friendly and generous with him.  But somehow he could not divest himself of the idea that she must be the Diana of his great picture.  There was an indescribable coolness and remoteness about her.  Has it any thing to do with that confounded sketch at Saratoga, and that—­equally confounded Abel Newt? thought he.

For the conversation at the Round Table sometimes fell upon Abel.

“He is certainly a handsome fellow,” said Amy Waring.  “I don’t wonder at his success.”

“It’s beauty that does it, then, Miss Waring?” asked Arthur.

“Does what?” said she.

“Why, that gives what you call social success.”

“Oh!  I mean that I don’t wonder such a handsome, bright, graceful; accomplished young man, who lives in fine style, drives pretty horses, and knows every body, should be a great favorite with the girls and their mothers.  Don’t you see, Abel Newt is a sort of Alcibiades?”