The visitor was not a person easily discouraged.  He took Lady Lydiard’s hand, and kissed it with easy grace.  A shade of irony was in his manner, agreeably relieved by a playful flash of tenderness.

“Years, my dear aunt?” he said.  “Look in your glass and you will see that time has stood still since we met last.  How wonderfully well you wear!  When shall we celebrate the appearance of your first wrinkle?  I am too old; I shall never live to see it.”

He took an easychair, uninvited; placed himself close at his aunt’s side, and ran his eye over her ill-chosen dress with an air of satirical admiration.  “How perfectly successful!” he said, with his well-bred insolence.  “What a chaste gayety of color!”

“What do you want?” asked her Ladyship, not in the least softened by the compliment.

“I want to pay my respects to my dear aunt,” Felix answered, perfectly impenetrable to his ungracious reception, and perfectly comfortable in a spacious arm-chair.

No pen-and-ink portrait need surely be drawn of Felix Sweetsir—­he is too well-known a picture in society.  The little lith e man, with his bright, restless eyes, and his long iron-gray hair falling in curls to his shoulders, his airy step and his cordial manner; his uncertain age, his innumerable accomplishments, and his unbounded popularity—­is he not familiar everywhere, and welcome everywhere?  How gratefully he receives, how prodigally he repays, the cordial appreciation of an admiring world!  Every man he knows is “a charming fellow.”  Every woman he sees is “sweetly pretty.”  What picnics he gives on the banks of the Thames in the summer season!  What a well-earned little income he derives from the whist-table!  What an inestimable actor he is at private theatricals of all sorts (weddings included)!  Did you never read Sweetsir’s novel, dashed off in the intervals of curative perspiration at a German bath?  Then you don’t know what brilliant fiction really is.  He has never written a second work; he does everything, and only does it once.  One song—­the despair of professional composers.  One picture—­just to show how easily a gentleman can take up an art and drop it again.  A really multiform man, with all the graces and all the accomplishments scintillating perpetually at his fingers’ ends.  If these poor pages have achieved nothing else, they have done a service to persons not in society by presenting them to Sweetsir.  In his gracious company the narrative brightens; and writer and reader (catching reflected brilliancy) understand each other at last, thanks to Sweetsir.

“Well,” said Lady Lydiard, “now you are here, what have you got to say for yourself?  You have been abroad, of course!  Where?”

“Principally at Paris, my dear aunt.  The only place that is fit to live in—­for this excellent reason, that the French are the only people who know how to make the most of life.  One has relations and friends in England and every now and then one returns to London—­”