That day went by, and the second and third day of the dowager’s absence; but there was no sign of John Saltram.  Adela thought of writing to ask him to come to her; but that seemed such a desperate step, she could not think how she should word the letter, or how she could give it to one of the servants to post.  No, she would contrive to post it herself, if she did bring herself to write.  And then she thought of a still more desperate step.  What if she were to call upon Mr. Saltram at his Temple chambers?  It would be a most unwarrantable thing for her to do, of course; an act which would cause Mrs. Pallinson’s hair to stand on end in virtuous horror, could it by any means come to her knowledge; but Adela did not intend that it ever should be known to Mrs. Pallinson; and about the opinion of the world in the abstract, Mrs. Branston told herself that she cared very little.  What was the use of being a rich widow, if she was to be hedged-in by the restrictions which encompass the steps of an unwedded damsel just beginning life?  Emboldened by the absence of her dowager kinswoman, Mrs. Branston felt herself independent, free to do a foolish thing, and ready to abide the hazard of her folly.

So, upon the fourth day of her freedom, despairing of any visit from John Saltram, Adela Branston ordered the solemn-looking butler to send for a cab, much to the surprise of that portly individual.

“Josephs has just been round asking about the carriage, mum,” he said, in a kind of suggestive way; “whether you’d please to want the b’rouche or the broom, and whether you’d drive before or after luncheon.”

“I shall not want the carriage this morning; send for a cab, if you please, Parker.  I am going into the City, and don’t care about taking the horses there.”

The solemn Parker bowed and retired, not a little mystified by this order.  His mistress was a kind little woman enough, but such extreme consideration for equine comfort is hardly a feminine attribute, and Mr. Parker was puzzled.  He told Josephs the coachman as much when he had dispatched an underling to fetch the cleanest four-wheeler procurable at an adjacent stand.

“She’s a-going to her banker’s I suppose,” he said meditatively; “going to make some new investments perhaps.  Women are always a-fidgeting and chopping and changing with their money.”

Mrs. Branston kept the cab waiting half an hour, according to the fairest reckoning.  She was very particular about her toilette that morning, and inclined to be discontented with the sombre plainness of her widow’s garb, and to fancy that the delicate border of white crape round her girlish face made her look pale, not to say sallow.  She came downstairs at last, however, looking very graceful and pretty in her trailing mourning robes and fashionable crape bonnet, in which the profoundest depth of woe was made to express itself with a due regard to elegance.  She came down to the homely hackney vehicle attended by the obsequious Berners, whose curiosity was naturally excited by this solitary expedition.