never means them to be taken as the creed of his real sentiments, or of his more earnest thoughts.
Walter Maynard was melancholy, impassioned, and sensitive; his heart preyed upon itself when alone: but, in society, he was lively, witty, and easily carried away by the impetus of discourse. Last night, the ready answer, the quick ridicule, the quaint imagery, which clothed his ideas as some fantastic garment, had made him the life of that gay meeting; but to-day he was paying the penalty of over-excitement. Fatigued and depressed, he saw nothing but difficulties and labour before him. He took up the papers beside him, and more than one unpaid bill was mingled with them. Instead of forcing upon him the necessity of exertion, they discouraged him from attempting it: of late, he had led a very gay life.
Norbourne Courtenaye had introduced him to several young men about town, who, rich and idle, were only too glad to fall in with so amusing a companion. Midnight after
