Adela Branston sat in the midst of a group in a wide bay window, and although John Saltram was standing near her chair, he did not this time engage the whole of her attention.  Gilbert found himself seated next a very animated young lady, who rather bored him with her raptures about the music, and who seemed to have assisted at every morning and evening concert that had been given within the last two years.  To any remoter period her memory did not extend, and she implied that she had been before that time in a chrysalis or non-existent condition.  She told Mr. Fenton, with an air of innocent wonder, that she had heard there were people living who remembered the first appearance of Jenny Lind.

A little before ten o’clock there was a general movement for the rail, the greater number of Mrs. Branston’s guests having come from town.  There was a scarcity of flys at this juncture, so John Saltram and Gilbert Fenton walked back to the station in the moonlight.

“Well, Gilbert, old fellow, what do you think of the lady?” Mr. Saltram asked, when they were a little way beyond the gates of Rivercombe.

“I think her very pretty, Jack, and—­well—­yes—­upon the whole fascinating.  But I don’t like the look of the thing altogether, and I fancy there’s considerable bad taste in giving parties with an invalid husband upstairs.  I was wondering how Mr. Branston liked the noise of all that talk and laughter in the dining-room, or the music that came afterwards.”

“My dear fellow, old Branston delights in society.  He is generally well enough to sit in the drawing-room and look on at his wife’s parties.  He doesn’t talk much on those occasions.  Indeed, I believe he is quite incapable of conversing about anything except the rise and fall of Indian stock, or the fluctuations in the value of indigo.  And, you see, Adela married him with the intention of enjoying her life.  She confesses as much sometimes with perfect candour.”

“I daresay she is very candid, and just as shallow,” said Gilbert Fenton, who was inclined to set his face against this entanglement of his friend’s.

“Well—­yes, I suppose she is rather shallow.  Those pretty pleasant little women generally are, I think.  Depth of feeling and force of mind are so apt to go along with blue spectacles and a rugged aspect.  A woman’s prettiness must stand for something.  There is so much real pleasure in the contemplation of a charming face, that a man had need rescind a little in the way of mental qualifications.  And I do not think Adela Branston is without a heart.”

“You praise her very warmly.  Are you really in love with her, John?” his friend asked seriously.

“No, Gilbert, upon my honour.  I heartily wish I were.  I wish I could give her more by-and-by, when death brings about her release from Michael Branston, than the kind of liking I feel for her.  No, I am not in love with her; but I think she likes me; and a man must be something worse than a brute if he is not grateful for a pretty woman’s regard.”