“Whenever you like.”

“The nabob is hospitality itself, and will be delighted to see you if he is to the fore when you go.  I fancy there is some kind of regatta—­a race or two, at any rate—­on Saturday afternoon.  Will that suit you?”

“Very well indeed.”

“Then we can meet at the station.  There is a train down at 2.15.  But we are going to see something of each other in the meantime, I hope.  I know that I am a sore hindrance to business at such an hour as this.  Will you dine with me at the Pnyx at seven to-night?  I shall be able to tell you how I got on with Levison.”

“With pleasure.”

And so they parted—­Gilbert Fenton to return to his letter-writing, and to the reception of callers of a more commercial and profitable character; John Saltram to loiter slowly through the streets on his way to the money-lender’s office.

They dined together very pleasantly that evening.  Mr. Levison had proved accommodating for the nonce; and John Saltram was in high spirits, almost boisterously gay, with the gaiety of a man for whom life is made up of swift transitions from brightness to gloom, long intervals of despondency, and brief glimpses of pleasure; the reckless humour of a man with whom thought always meant care, and whose soul had no higher aspiration than to beguile the march of time by such evenings as these.

They met on the following Saturday at the Great Western terminus, John Saltram still in high spirits, and Gilbert Fenton quietly happy.  That morning’s post had brought him his first letter from Marian—­an innocent girlish epistle, which was as delicious to Gilbert as if it had been the chef-d’oeuvre of a Sevigne.  What could she say to him?  Very little.  The letter was full of gratitude for his thoughtfulness about her, for the pretty tributes of his love which he had sent her, the books and music and ribbons and gloves, in the purchase whereof he had found such a novel pleasure.  It had been a common thing for him to execute such commissions for his sister; but it was quite a new sensation to him to discuss the colours of gloves and ribbons, now that the trifles he chose were to give pleasure to Marian Nowell.  He knew every tint that harmonised or contrasted best with that clear olive complexion—­the brilliant blue that gave new brightness to the sparkling grey eyes, the pink that cast warm lights upon the firmly-moulded throat and chin—­and he found a childish delight in these trivialities.  There was one ribbon he selected for her at this time which he had strange reason to remember in the days to come—­a narrow blue ribbon, with tiny pink rosebuds upon it, a daring mixture of the two colours.

He had the letter in the breast-pocket of his coat when he met John Saltram at the station, and entertained that gentleman with certain passages from it as they sped down to Maidenhead.  To which passages Mr. Saltram listened kindly, with a very vague notion of the writer.