 of his preference there
hovered the vague adumbration of a belief that his cousin's final merit was a
certain enviable capacity for whistling, rather gallantly, at the sanctions of
mere judgment - for showing a larger courage, a finer quality of pluck, than
common occasion demanded. Mr. Wentworth would never have risked the intimation
that Acton was made, in the smallest degree, of the stuff of a hero; but this is
small blame to him, for Robert would certainly never have risked it himself.
Acton certainly exercised great discretion in all things - beginning with his
estimate of himself. He knew that he was by no means so much of a man of the
world as he was supposed to be in local circles; but it must be added that he
knew also that his natural shrewdness had a reach of which he had never quite
given local circles the measure. He was addicted to taking the humorous view of
things, and he had discovered that even in the narrowest circles such a
disposition may find frequent opportunities. Such opportunities had formed for
some time - that is, since his return from China, a year and a half before - the
most active element in this gentleman's life, which had just now a rather
indolent air. He was perfectly willing to get married. He was very fond of
books, and he had a handsome library; that is, his books were much more numerous
than Mr. Wentworth's. He was also very fond of pictures; but it must be
confessed, in the fierce light of contemporary criticism, that his walls were
adorned with several rather abortive masterpieces. He had got his learning - and
there was more of it than commonly appeared - at Harvard College; and he took a
pleasure in old associations, which made it a part of his daily contentment to
live so near this institution that he often passed it in driving to Boston. He
was extremely interested in the Baroness Münster.
    She was very frank with him; or at least she intended to be. »I am sure you
find it very strange that I should have settled down in this out-of-the-way part
of the world!« she said to him three or four weeks after she had installed
herself. »I am certain you are wondering about my motives. They are very pure.«
The Baroness by this time was an old inhabitant; the best society in Boston had
called upon her, and Clifford Wentworth had taken her several times to drive in
his buggy.
    Robert Acton was seated near her, playing with a fan; there were always
several
