“And how about Mrs. Branston, John?  By the way, I thought that she might have had something to do with your sudden journey to London.”

“No; she had nothing to do with it.  I have not seen her since I came back from Lidford.”

“Indeed!”

“No.  Your lecture had a potent effect, you see,” said Mr. Saltram, with something of a sneer.  “You have almost cured me of that passion.”

“My opinion would have very little influence if you were far gone, John.  The fact is, Mrs. Branston, pretty and agreeable as she may be, is not the sort of woman to acquire any strong hold upon you.”

“You think not?”

“I am sure of it.”

After this John Saltram became more expansive.  They sat together until late in the night, talking chiefly of the past, old friends, and half-forgotten days; recalling the scenes through which they had travelled together with a pensive tenderness, and dwelling regretfully upon that careless bygone time when life was fresh for both of them, and the future seemed to lie across the straightest, easiest high-road to reputation and happiness.

Gilbert spoke of that perilous illness of his in Egypt, the fever in which he had been given over by every one, and only saved at last by the exemplary care and devotion of his friend.  John Saltram had a profound objection to this thing being talked about, and tried immediately to change the drift of the conversation; but to-night Gilbert was not to be stopped.

“You refuse the help of my purse, Jack,” he said, “and forget that I owe you my life.  I should never have been to the fore to navigate the good ship Fenton and Co., if it hadn’t been for your care.  The doctor fellow at Cairo told me as much in very plain terms.  Yes, John, I consider myself your debtor to the amount of a life.”

“Saving a man’s life is sometimes rather a doubtful boon.  I think if I had a fever, and some officious fool dragged me through it when I was in a fair way to make a decent end, I should be very savagely disposed towards him.”

“Why, John Saltram, you are the last man in the world from whom I should expect that dreary kind of talk.  Yet I suppose it’s only a natural consequence of shutting yourself up in these rooms for ten days at a stretch.”

“What good use have I made of my life in the past, Gilbert?” demanded the other bitterly; “and what have I to look forward to in the future?  To marry, and redeem my position by the aid of a woman’s money.  That’s hardly the noblest destiny that can befall a man.  And yet I think if Adela Branston were free, and willing to marry me, I might make something of my life.  I might go into Parliament, and make something of a name for myself.  I could write books instead of anonymous articles.  I should scarcely sink down into an idle mindless existence of dinner-giving and dinner-eating.  Yes, I think the best thing that could happen to me would be to marry Adela Branston.”