be performed without audible gusto; the knowledge cost him some self-criticism.  But there were numerous minor points of convention on which he was not so clear; it had never occurred to him, for instance, that civilisation demands the breaking of bread, that, in the absence of silver, a fork must suffice for the dissection of fish, that a napkin is a graceful auxiliary in the process of a meal and not rather an embarrassing superfluity of furtive application.  Like a wise man, be did not talk much during dinner, devoting his mind to observation.  Of one thing he speedily became aware, namely, that Mr. Alfred Waltham was so very much in his own house that it was not wholly safe to regard his demeanour as exemplary.  Another point well certified was that if any person in the world could be pointed to as an unassailable pattern of comely behaviour that person was Mr. Alfred Waltham’s sister.  Richard observed Adela as closely as good manners would allow.

Talking little as yet—­the young man at the head of the table gave others every facility for silence—­Richard could occupy his thought in many directions.  Among other things, he instituted a comparison between the young lady who sat opposite to him and someone—­not a young lady, it is true, but of the same sex and about the same age.  He tried to imagine Emma Vine seated at this table; the effort resulted in a disagreeable warmth in the lobes of his ears.  Yes, but—­he attacked himself—­not Emma Vine dressed as he was accustomed to see her; suppose her possessed of all Adela Waltham’s exterior advantages.  As his imagination was working on the hint, Adela herself addressed a question to him.  He looked up, he let her voice repeat itself in inward echo.  His ears were still more disagreeably warm.

It was a lovely day—­warm enough to dine with the windows open.  The faintest air seemed to waft sunlight from corner to corner of the room; numberless birds sang on the near boughs and hedges; the flowers on the table were like a careless gift of gold-hearted prodigal summer.  Richard transferred himself in spirit to a certain square on the borders of Hoxton and Islington, within scent of the Regent’s Canal.  The house there was now inhabited by Emma and her sisters; they also would be at dinner.  Suppose he had the choice:  there or here?  Adela addressed to him another question.  The square vanished into space.

How often he had spoken scornfully of that word ‘lady’!  Were not all of the sex women?  What need for that hateful distinction?  Richard tried another experiment with his imagination.  ’I had dinner with some people called Waltham last Sunday.  The old woman I didn’t much care about; but there was a young woman—­’ Well, why not?  On the other hand, suppose Emma Vine called at his lodgings.  ’A young woman called this morning, sir—­’ Well, why not?

Dessert was on the table.  He saw Adela’s fingers take an orange, her other hand holding a little fruit-knife.  Now, who could have imagined that the simple paring of an orange could be achieved at once with such consummate grace and so naturally?  In Richard’s country they first bite off a fraction of the skin, then dig away with what of finger-nail may be available.  He knew someone who would assuredly proceed in that way.