“Berners, you really must not say such things,” Mrs. Branston exclaimed reproachfully.  “You ought to know that my cousin is most kind and thoughtful, and does everything for the best.”

“O, of course, ma’am; but some people’s best is quite as bad as other people’s worst,” the maid answered sharply; “and as to kindness and thoughtfulness, Mrs. Pallinson is a great deal too kind and thoughtful, I think; for her kindness and thoughtfulness won’t allow you a moment’s rest.  And then, as if anybody couldn’t see through her schemes about that precious son of hers—­with his finicking affected ways!”

And at this point the vivacious Berners gave a little imitation of Theobald Pallinson, with which liberty Adela pretended to be very much offended, laughing at the performance nevertheless.

Mrs. Branston passed the first day of her freedom in luxurious idleness.  It was such an inexpressible relief not to hear the perpetual click of Mrs. Pallinson’s needle travelling in and out of the canvas, as that irreproachable matron sat at her embroidery-frame, on which a group of spaniels, after Sir Edwin Landseer, were slowly growing into the fluffy life of Berlin wool; a still greater relief, not to be called upon to respond appropriately to the dull platitudes which formed the lady’s usual conversation, when she was not abusing John Saltram, or sounding the praises of her beloved son.

The day was a long one for Adela, in spite of the pleasant sense of freedom; for she had begun the morning with the thought of what a delightful thing it would be if some happy accident should bring Mr. Saltram to Cavendish-square on this particular day; and having once started with this idea, she found herself counting the hours and half-hours with impatient watchfulness until the orthodox time for visiting was quite over, and she could no longer beguile herself with the hope that he would come.  She wanted so much to see him alone.  Since her husband’s death, they had met only in the presence of Mrs. Pallinson, beneath the all-pervading eye and within perpetual ear-shot of that oppressive matron.  Adela fancied that if they could only meet for one brief half-hour face to face, without the restraint of that foreign presence, all misunderstanding would be at an end between them, and John Saltram’s affection for her, in which she believed with a fond credulity, would reveal itself in all its truth and fulness.

“I daresay it is my cousin Pallinson who has kept him away from me all this time,” Adela said to herself with a very impatient feeling about her cousin Pallinson.  “I know how intolerant he is of any one he dislikes; and no doubt he has taken a dislike to her; she has done everything to provoke it, indeed by her coldness and rudeness to him.”