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The estimation in which the characters of these two young men was held, at least by two individuals, the preceding conversation has apprised the reader. Each made his impression upon a certain order of mind, and each was regarded, or lightly esteemed accordingly. Although in talents and in a right estimation of life and its true ends, the two young men were altogether dissimilar; yet were they friends, and in many respects intimate. Why they were so, we shall not stop to enquire, but proceed to introduce them more particularly to the reader.

“I suppose you are going to Mrs. Melton’s this evening?” said Wilton to his friend, a few weeks after the period indicated in the opening of this story.

“I feel as if I would like to go. A social evening, now and then, I find pleasant, and I have no doubt it is useful to me.”

“That is right, Walter. I am glad to see you coming out of your recluse habits. You want the polish and ease that social life will give you.”

“I feel that, Wilton. But I fear I am too old now to have all the rough corners knocked off, and worn smooth.”

“O, don’t despair. You’ll make a ladies’ man after awhile, if you persevere, and become more particular in your dress. But, to change the subject, a little, tell me what you think of Cara Linton? Her father is worth a plum, and she is just the showy, brilliant woman, of which a man like me ought to be proud of.”

“As you ask me, Charles, I must reply candidly. I would think her a dear bargain with all her father’s money thrown in with her; and as to your other reasons for thinking of her as a wife, I consider them, to speak plainly, as I always do to you, despicable!”

“And why so, Mr. Philosopher?”

“A wife should be chosen from much higher considerations than these. What do you want with a brilliant, showy wife? You marry, or ought to marry, a companion for yourself–not a woman for the world to admire.”

“You are too matter-of-fact, by half, Walter. Your common sense ideas, as you call them, will keep you grubbing in a mole hill all your life.

“I should like to see the woman you would choose for a wife!”

“I wish you had a few of these common sense ideas you despise so much. I am afraid, Charles, that the time is not very distant when you will stand sadly in need of them.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Walter. I’ll take care of number one. Let me alone for that. But, I should like to know your serious objections to Cara? You sweep her aside with one wave of your hand, as if she were too insignificant to be thought of for a moment.”

“I said that I should consider her a dear bargain, and so I would–for she would not suit me at all.”

“Ah, there I believe you. But come, let me hear why she would not suit you.”

“Because she has no correct and common sense estimation of life and its relations. She is full of poetry and romance, and fashion, and show, and ‘all that kind of thing;’ none of which, without a great deal of the salt of common sense, would suit me.”

“Common sense! Common sense! Common sense! That is your hobby. Verily, Walter, you are a monomaniac on the subject of common sense; but, as for me, I will leave common sense to common people. I go in for uncommon sense.”

“The poorest and most unprofitable sense of all, let me tell you. And one of these days you will discover it to be so.”

“It is no use for us to compare our philosophical notes, I see plainly enough,” Wilton responded. “We shall never view things in the same light. You are not the man of the world you should be, Walter. Men of half your merit will eclipse you, winning opulence and distinction–while you, with your common sense notions, will be plodding on at a snail’s pace. You are behind the age, and a stranger to its powerful, onward impulses.”