He seemed to be every man's friend, and to all he seemed equally genial.

His affability, even to those whom he disliked, was unfailing.
"See that fellow yonder," he said to Magnus, indicating a certain middle-aged man, flamboyantly dressed, who wore his hair long, who was afflicted with sore eyes, and the collar of whose velvet coat was sprinkled with dandruff, "that's Hartrath, the artist, a man absolutely devoid of even the commonest decency.

How he got in here is a mystery to me." Yet, when this Hartrath came across to say "How do you do" to Lyman, Lyman was as eager in his cordiality as his warmest friend could have expected.
"Why the devil are you so chummy with him, then ?" observed Harran when Hartrath had gone away.
Lyman's explanation was vague.

The truth of the matter was, that Magnus's oldest son was consumed by inordinate ambition.

Political preferment was his dream, and to the realisation of this dream popularity was an essential.