“No, Gilbert, it’s not that,” answered the other, still moodily contemplative of his boots.  “I really like the lady well enough—­love her, I daresay.  I have not had much experience of the tender passion since I was jilted by an Oxford barmaid—­whom I would have married, by Jove.  But the truth is, the lady in question isn’t free to marry just yet.  There’s a husband in the case—­a feeble old Anglo-Indian, who can’t live very long.  Don’t look so glum, old fellow; there has been nothing wrong, not a word that all the world might not hear; but there are signs and tokens by which a man, without any vanity—­and heaven knows I have no justification for that—­may be sure a woman likes him.  In short, I believe that if Adela Branston were a widow, the course would lie clear before me, and I should have nothing to do but go in and win.  And the stakes will be worth winning, I assure you.”

“But this Mr. Branston may live for an indefinite number of years, during which you will be wasting your life on a shadow.”

“Not very likely.  Poor old Branston came home from Calcutta a confirmed invalid, and I believe his sentence has been pronounced by all the doctors.  In the mean time he makes the best of life, has his good days and bad days, and entertains a great deal of company at a delightful place near Maidenhead—­with a garden sloping to the river like that you were talking of just now, only on a very extensive scale.  You know how often I have wanted you to run down there with me, and how there has been always something to prevent your going.”

“Yes, I remember.  Rely upon it, I shall contrive to accept the next invitation, come what may.  But I can’t say I like the idea of this prospective kind of courtship, or that I consider it quite worthy of you, Saltram.”

“My dear Gilbert, when a fellow is burdened with debt and of a naturally idle disposition, he is apt to take rather a liberal view of such means of advancement in life as may present themselves to him.  But there is no prospective courtship—­nothing at all resembling a courtship in this case, believe me.  Mrs. Branston knows that I like and admire her.  She knows as much of almost every man who goes to Rivercombe; for there are plenty who will be disposed to go in against me for the prize by-and-by.  But I think that she likes me better than any one else, and that the chances will be all in my favour.  From first to last there has not been a word spoken between us which old Branston himself might not hear.  As to Adela’s marrying again when he is gone, he could scarcely be so fatuous as not to foresee the probability of that.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Very pretty, in rather a childish way, with blue eyes and fair hair.  She is not my ideal among women, but no man ever marries his ideal.  The man who has sworn by eyes as black as a stormy midnight and raven hair generally unites himself to the most insipid thing in blondes, and the idolater of golden locks takes to wife some frizzy-haired West Indian with an unmistakable dip of the tar-brush.  When will you go down to Rivercombe?”