And the baronet’s fair friend, Lady Blandish, and some few true men and women, held Austin Wentworth high.

He did not live with his wife; and Sir Austin, whose mind was bent on the future of our species, reproached him with being barren to posterity, while knaves were propagating.

The principal characteristic of the second nephew, Adrian Harley, was his sagacity.  He was essentially the wise youth, both in counsel and in action.

“In action,” the “Pilgrim’s Scrip” observes, “Wisdom goes by majorities.”

Adrian had an instinct for the majority, and, as the world invariably found him enlisted in its ranks, his appellation of wise youth was acquiesced in without irony.

The wise youth, then, had the world with him, but no friends.  Nor did he wish for those troublesome appendages of success.  He caused himself to be required by people who could serve him; feared by such as could injure.  Not that he went out of the way to secure his end, or risked the expense of a plot.  He did the work as easily as he ate his daily bread.  Adrian was an epicurean; one whom Epicurus would have scourged out of his garden, certainly:  an epicurean of our modern notions.  To satisfy his appetites without rashly staking his character, was the wise youth’s problem for life.  He had no intimates except Gibbon and Horace, and the society of these fine aristocrats of literature helped him to accept humanity as it had been, and was; a supreme ironic procession, with laughter of Gods in the background.  Why not laughter of mortals also?  Adrian had his laugh in his comfortable corner.  He possessed peculiar attributes of a heathen God.  He was a disposer of men:  he was polished, luxurious, and happy—­at their cost.  He lived in eminent self-content, as one lying on soft cloud, lapt in sunshine.  Nor Jove, nor Apollo, cast eye upon the maids of earth with cooler fire of selection, or pursued them in the covert with more sacred impunity.  And he enjoyed his reputation for virtue as something additional.  Stolen fruits are said to be sweet; undeserved rewards are exquisite.

The best of it was, that Adrian made no pretences.  He did not solicit the favourable judgment of the world.  Nature and he attempted no other concealment than the ordinary mask men wear.  And yet the world would proclaim him moral, as well as wise, and the pleasing converse every way of his disgraced cousin Austin.

In a word, Adrian Harley had mastered his philosophy at the early age of one-and-twenty.  Many would be glad to say the same at that age twice-told:  they carry in their breasts a burden with which Adrian’s was not loaded.  Mrs. Doria was nearly right about his heart.  A singular mishap (at his birth, possibly, or before it) had unseated that organ, and shaken it down to his stomach, where it was a much lighter, nay, an inspiring weight, and encouraged him merrily onward.  Throned there it looked on little that did not arrive to gratify it.  Already that region was a trifle prominent in the person of the wise youth, and carried, as it were, the flag of his philosophical tenets in front of him.  He was charming after dinner, with men or with women:  delightfully sarcastic:  perhaps a little too unscrupulous in his moral tone, but that his moral reputation belied him, and it must be set down to generosity of disposition.