"A novel! no!" cried John Saltram, with a wry face; "it is the romance
of reality I deal with. My book is a Life of Jonathan Swift. He was
always a favourite study of mine, you know, that brilliant, unprincipled,
intolerant, cynical, irresistible, miserable man. Scott's biography seems
to me to give but a tame picture, and others are only sketches. Mine will
be a pre-Raphaelite study--faithful as a photograph, careful as a
miniature on ivory, and life-size."

"I trust it will bring you fame and money when the time comes," answered
Gilbert. "And how about Mrs. Branston? Is she as charming as ever?"

"A little more so, if possible. Poor old Michael Branston is dead--went
off the hooks rather suddenly about a month ago. The widow looks amazingly
pretty in her weeds."

"And you will marry her, I suppose, Jack, as soon as her mourning is
over?"

"Well, yes; it is on the cards," John Saltram said, in an indifferent
tone.

"Why, how you say that! Is there any doubt as to the lady's fortune?"

"O no; that is all square enough. Michael Branston's will was in the
_Illustrated London News_; the personalty sworn under a hundred and
twenty thousand,--all left to the widow,--besides real property--a house
in Cavendish Square, the villa at Maidenhead, and a place near
Leamington."