ability of that."

"Is she pretty?"

"Very pretty, in rather a childish way, with blue eyes and fair hair. She
is not my ideal among women, but no man ever marries his ideal. The man
who has sworn by eyes as black as a stormy midnight and raven hair
generally unites himself to the most insipid thing in blondes, and the
idolater of golden locks takes to wife some frizzy-haired West Indian
with an unmistakable dip of the tar-brush. When will you go down to
Rivercombe?"

"Whenever you like."

"The nabob is hospitality itself, and will be delighted to see you if he
is to the fore when you go. I fancy there is some kind of regatta--a race
or two, at any rate--on Saturday afternoon. Will that suit you?"

"Very well indeed."

"Then we can meet at the station. There is a train down at 2.15. But we
are going to see something of each other in the meantime, I hope. I know
that I am a sore hindrance to business at such an hour as this. Will you
dine with me at the Pnyx at seven to-night? I shall be able to tell you
how I got on with Levison."

"With pleasure."

And so they parted--Gilbert Fenton to return to his letter-writing, and
to the reception of callers of a more commercial and profitable
character; John Saltram to loiter slowly through the streets on his way
to the money-lender's office.

They dined together very pleasantly that evening. Mr. Levison had proved
accommodating for the nonce; and John Saltram was in high spirits, almost
boisterously gay, with the gaiety of a man for whom life is made up of
swift transitions from brightness to gloom, long intervals of
despondency, and brief glimpses of pleasure; the reckless humour of a man
with whom thought always meant care, and whose soul had no higher
aspiration than to beguile the march of time by such evenings as these.

They met on the following Saturday at the Great Western terminus, John
Saltram still in high spirits, and Gilbert Fenton quietly happy. That
morning's post had brought him his first letter from Marian--an innocent
girlish epistle, which was as delicious to Gilbert as if it had been the
_chef-d'oeuvre_ of a Sevigne. What could she say to him? Very
little. The letter was full of gratitude for his thoughtfulness about
her, for the pretty tributes of his love which he had sent her, the books
and music and ribbons and gloves, in the purchase whereof he had found
such a novel pleasure. It had been a common thing for him to execute such
commissions fo