morning.
It delighted Adrian to see them quaffing his burgundy, and stuffing down
his truffles, and his choice pies from Strasbourg, and all the delicate
dishes which many of them looked at with wonder, and tasted with
timidity. And then he would, with his particular smile, say to a brother
bank director, whose mouth was full, and who could only answer him with
his eyes, "Business gives one an appetite; eh, Mr. Trodgits?"

Sunday was always a great day at Hainault. The Royal and the Stock
Exchanges were both of them always fully represented; and then they
often had an opportunity, which they highly appreciated, of seeing and
conferring with some public characters, M.P.'s of note or promise, and
occasionally a secretary of the Treasury, or a privy councillor. "Turtle
makes all men equal," Adrian would observe. "Our friend Trodgits seemed
a little embarrassed at first, when I introduced him to the Right
Honourable; but when they sate next each other at dinner, they soon got
on very well."

On Sunday the guests walked about and amused themselves. No one was
allowed to ride or drive; Mrs. Neuchatel did not like riding and driving
on Sundays. "I see no harm in it," said Adrian, "but I like women to
have their way about religion. And you may go to the stables and see
the horses, and that might take up the morning. And then there are
the houses; they will amuse you. For my part, I am for a stroll in
the forest;" and then he would lead his companions, after a delightful
ramble, to some spot of agrestic charm, and, looking at it with delight,
would say, "Pretty, is it not? But then they say this place is not
fashionable. It will do, I think, for us City men."

Adrian had married, when very young, a lady selected by his father.
The selection seemed a good one. She was the daughter of a most eminent
banker, and had herself, though that was of slight importance, a large
portion. She was a woman of abilities, highly cultivated. Nothing had
ever been spared that she should possess every possible accomplishment,
and acquire every information and grace that it was desirable to attain.
She was a linguist, a fine musician, no mean artist; and she threw out,
if she willed it, the treasures of her well-stored and not unimaginative
mind with ease and sometimes eloquence. Her person, without being
absolutely beautiful, was interesting. There was even a degree of
fascination in her brown velvet eyes. And yet Mrs. Neuchatel was not a
conte