ess your indifference to shooting, and the ordinary routine
of rustic existence. Perhaps the secret is, that you fear your reputation
as a man of fashion would suffer were you to be seen in London at such a
barbarous season as this."

"I have never rejoiced in a reputation for fashion," Mr. Saltram
answered, with his quiet smile--a smile that gave a wonderful brightness
to his face; "and I think I like London in the autumn better than at any
other time. One has room to move about. I have been in the country of
late because I really do appreciate rural surroundings, and have found
myself able to write better in the perfect quiet of rural life."

"It is rather hard upon your friends that you should devote all your days
to literature."

"And still harder upon the reading public, perhaps. But, my dear Mrs.
Branston, remember, I must write to live."

Adela gave a little impatient sigh. She was thinking how gladly she would
have made this man master of her ample fortune; wondering whether he
would ever claim from her the allegiance she was so ready to give.

Mr. Pallinson did his best to engage his cousin's attention during the
rest of the evening. He brought her her tea-cup, and hovered about her
while she sipped the beverage with that graceful air of suppressed
tenderness which constant practice in the drawing-rooms of Maida-hill had
rendered almost natural to him; but, do what he would, he could not
distract Mrs. Branston's thoughts and looks from John Saltram. It was on
him that her eyes were fixed while the accomplished Theobald was giving
her a lively account of a concert at the Eyre Arms; and it was the
fascination of his presence which made her answer at random to her
cousin's questions about the last volume of the Laureate's, which she had
been lately reading. Even Mr. Pallinson, obtuse as he was apt to be when
called upon to comprehend any fact derogatory to his own self-esteem,
was fain to confess to himself that this evening's efforts were futile,
and that this dark-faced stranger was the favourite for those matrimonial
stakes he had entered himself to run for. He looked at Mr. Saltram with a
critical eye many times in the course of the evening, wondering what
possible merit any sensible woman could perceive in such a man. But then,
as Theobald Pallinson reflected, the misfortune is that so few women are
sensible; and it was gradually becoming evident to him that Michael
Branston's widow was amongst the most f