“My dear foolish Gilbert,” said John Saltram, “how much useless trouble you have given yourself!  Was it not enough to know that this girl had broken faith with you?  I think, were I in your place, that would be the end of the story for me.  And now you know more than that—­you know that she is another man’s wife.  If you find her, nothing can come of it.”

“It is the man I want to find, John; the man whom I shall make it the business of my life to discover.”

“For what good?”

“For the deadliest harm to him,” Gilbert answered moodily.  “If ever he and I meet, I will have some payment for my broken life; some compensation for my ruined hopes.  We two should not meet and part lightly, rely upon it.”

“You can make no excuse for his love, that fatal irresistible passion, which outweighs truth and honour when they are set in the opposite scale.  I did not think you could be so hard, Gilbert; I thought you would have more mercy on the man who wronged you.”

“I could pardon any injury but this.  I will never forgive this.”

John Saltram shrugged his shoulders with a deprecating air.

“It is a mistake, my dear fellow,” he said.  “Life is not long enough for these strong passions.  There is nothing in the world worth the price these bitter hatreds and stormy angers cost us.  You have thrown away a great deal of deep feeling on a lady, whose misfortune it was not to be able to return your affection as she might have done—­as you most fully deserved at her hands.  Why waste any further emotion in regrets that we as useless as they are foolish?”

“You may as well ask me why I exist,” Gilbert answered quietly.  “Regret for all I have lost is a part of my life.”

After this there was no more to be said, and Mr. Saltram went on to speak of pleasanter topics.  The two men dined together, and sat by the fire afterwards with a bottle of claret between them, smoking their cigars, and talking till late into the night.

It was not to be supposed that Adela Branston’s name could be omitted entirely from this confidential talk.

“I have seen nothing and heard very little of her while I have been away,” John Saltram said, in answer to a question of Gilbert’s; “but I called in Cavendish-square this afternoon, and was fortunate enough to find her at home.  She wants me to dine with her next Sunday, and I half promised to do so.  Will you come too?  I know that she would be glad to see you.”

“I cannot see that I am wanted, John.”

“But I tell you that you are wanted.  I wish you to go with me.  Mrs. Branston likes you amazingly, if you care to know the opinion of so frivolous a person.”

“I am very much flattered by Mrs. Branston’s kindly estimate of me, but I do not think I have any claim to it, except the fact that I am your friend.  I shall be happy to go with you on Sunday, if you really wish it.”

“I do really wish it.  I shall drop Mrs. Branston a line to say you will come.  She asked me to bring you whenever I had an opportunity.  The dinner-hour is seven.  I’ll call for you here a few minutes before.  I don’t promise you a very lively evening, remember.  There will only be Adela, and a lady she has taken as her companion.”