The carriage stopped so abruptly and so near him that he paused and looked up, in natural wonderment at the circumstance.  A lady dressed in mourning was leaning forward out of the carriage, looking eagerly after him.  A second glance showed him that this lady was Mrs. Branston.

“How do you do, Mr. Fenton,” she cried, holding out her little black-gloved hand:  “What an age since I have seen you!  But you have not forgotten me, I hope?”

“That is quite impossible, Mrs. Branston.  If I had not been very much absorbed in thought just now, I should have recognised you sooner.  It was very kind of you to stop to speak to me.”

“Not at all.  I have something most particular to say to you.  If you are not in a very great hurry, would you mind getting into the carriage, and letting me drive you round the Park?  I can’t keep you standing in the road to talk.”

“I am in no especial hurry, and I shall be most happy to take a turn round the Park with you.”

Mrs. Branston’s footman opened the carriage-door, and Gilbert took his seat opposite the widow, who was enjoying her afternoon drive alone for once in a way; a propitious toothache having kept Mrs. Pallinson within doors.

“I have been expecting to see you for ever so long, Mr. Fenton.  Why do you never call upon me?” the pretty little widow began, with her usual frankness.

“I have been so closely occupied lately; and even if I had not been so, I should have scarcely expected to find you in town at this unfashionable season.”

“I don’t care the least in the world for fashion,” Mrs. Branston said, with an impatient shrug of her shoulders.  “That is only an excuse of yours, Mr. Fenton; you completely forgot my existence, I have no doubt.  All my friends desert me now-a-days—­older friends than you.  There is Mr. Saltram, for instance.  I have not seen him for—­O, not for ever so long,” concluded the widow, blushing in the dusk as she remembered that visit of hers to the Temple—­that daring step which ought to have brought John Saltram so much nearer to her, but which had resulted in nothing but disappointment and regret—­bitter regret that she should have cast her womanly pride into the very dust at this man’s feet to no purpose.

But Adela Branston was not a proud woman; and even in the midst of her regret for having done this foolish thing, she was always ready to make excuses for the man she loved, always in danger of committing some new folly in his behalf.

Gilbert Fenton felt for the poor foolish little woman, whose fair face was turned to him with such a pleading look in the wintry twilight.  He knew that what he had to tell her must needs carry desolation to her heart—­knew that in the background of John Saltram’s life there lurked even a deeper cause of grief for this gentle impressionable little soul.

“You will not wonder that Mr. Saltram has not called upon you lately when you know the truth,” he said gravely:  “he has been very ill.”