“Who,” said an elderly dandy, dining apart with one of his contemporaries,—“who is that lad? One ought not to admit such mere boys into the club.”
“He is the only surviving son of an old friend of ours,” answered the other, dropping his eyeglass,—“young Percival St. John.”
“St. John! What! Vernon St. John’s son?”
“Yes.”
“He has not his father’s good air. These young fellows have a tone, a something,—a want of self-possession, eh?”
“Very true. The fact is, that Percival was meant for the navy, and even served as a mid for a year or so. He was a younger son, then,—third, I think. The two elder ones died, and Master Percival walked into the inheritance. I don’t think he is quite of age yet.”
“Of age! he does not look seventeen.”
“Oh, he is more than that; I remember him in his jacket at Laughton. A fine property!”
“Ay, I don’t wonder those fellows are so civil to him. This claret is corked! Everything is so bad at this d——d club,—no wonder, when a troop of boys are let in! Enough to spoil any club; don’t know Larose from Lafitte! Waiter!”
Meanwhile, the talk round the table at which sat Percival St. John was animated, lively, and various,—the talk common with young idlers; of horses, and steeplechases, and opera-dancers, and reigning beauties, and good-humoured jests at each other. In all this babble there was a freshness about Percival St. John’s conversation which showed that, as yet, for him life had the zest of novelty. He was more at home about horses and steeplechases than about opera-dancers and beauties and the small scandals of town. Talk on these latter topics did not seem to interest him, on the contrary, almost to pain. Shy and modest as a girl, he coloured or looked aside when his more hardened friends boasted of assignations and love-affairs. Spirited, gay, and manly enough in all really manly points, the virgin bloom of innocence was yet visible in his frank, charming manner; and often, out of respect for his delicacy, some hearty son of pleasure stopped short in his narrative, or lost the point of his anecdote. And yet so lovable was Percival in his good humour, his naivete, his joyous entrance into innocent joy, that his companions were scarcely conscious of the gene and restraint he imposed on them. Those merry, dark eyes and that flashing smile were conviviality of themselves. They brought with them a contagious cheerfulness which compensated for the want of corruption.