“Yes; we were at Oxford together, and have been fast friends ever since.”

“Indeed!—­how really delightful!  The young men of the present day appear to me generally so incapable of a sincere friendship.  And you and Mr. Saltram have been friends all that time?  He is a literary man, I understand.  I have not had the pleasure of reading any of his works; but Adela tells me he is extremely clever.”

“He is very clever.”

“And steady, I hope.  Literary men are so apt to be wild and dissipated; and Adela has such a high opinion of your friend.  I hope he is steady.”

“I scarcely know what a lady’s notion of steadiness may involve,” Gilbert answered, smiling; “but I daresay when my friend marries he will be steady enough.  I cannot see that literary tastes and dissipated habits have any natural affinity.  I should rather imagine that a man with resources of that kind would be likely to lead a quieter life than a man without such resources.”

“Do you really think so?  I fancied that artists and poets and people of that kind were altogether a dangerous class.  And you think that Mr. Saltram will be steady when he is married?  He is engaged to be married, I conclude by your manner of saying that.”

“I had no idea my words implied anything of the kind.  No, I do not think John Saltram is engaged.”

Mrs. Pallinson glanced towards the piano, where the two figures seemed very close to each other in the dim light of the room.  Adela’s playing had been going on in a desultory kind of manner, broken every now and then by her conversation with John Saltram, and had evidently been intended to give pleasure only to that one listener.

While she was still playing in this careless fitful way, a servant announced Mr. Pallinson; and a gentleman entered whom Gilbert had no difficulty in recognizing as the son of the lady he had been conversing with.  This new-comer was a tall pale-faced young man, with intensely penetrating black eyes exactly like his mother’s, sharp well-cut features, and an extreme precision of dress and manner.  His hands, which were small and thin, were remarkable for their whiteness, and were set-off by spotless wristbands, which it was his habit to smooth fondly with his slim fingers in the intervals of his discourse.  Mrs. Pallinson rose and embraced this gentleman with stately affection.

“My son Theobald—­Mr. Fenton,” she said.  “My son is a medical practitioner, residing at Maida-hill; and it is a pleasure to him to spend an occasional evening with his cousin Adela and myself.”

“Whenever the exigencies of professional life leave me free to enjoy that happiness,” Mr. Pallinson added in a brisk semi-professional manner.  “Adela has been giving you some music, I see.  I heard one of Handel’s choruses as I came upstairs.”

He went into the front drawing-room, shook hands with Mrs. Branston, and established himself with a permanent air beside the piano.  Adela did not seem particularly glad to see him; and John Saltram, who had met him before in Cavendish-square, received him with supreme indifference.