"It would be a splendid match for you, Jack."

"Splendid, of course. An unprecedented stroke of luck for such a fellow
as I. Yet I doubt very much if I am quite the man for that sort of life.
I should be apt to fancy it a kind of gilded slavery, I think, Gil, and
there would be some danger of my kicking off the chains."

"But you like Mrs. Branston, don't you, Jack?"

"Like her? Yes, I like her too well to deceive her. And she would expect
devoted affection from a second husband. She is full of romantic ideas,
school-girl theories of life which she was obliged to nip in the bud when
she went to the altar with old Branston, but which have burst into flower
now that she is free."

"Have you seen her often since her husband's death?"

"Only twice;--once immediately after the funeral, and again yesterday.
She is living in Cavendish Square just now."

"I hope you will marry her. I should like to see you safe in smooth
water, and with some purpose in life. I should like to see you turn your
back upon the loneliness of these dreary chambers."

"They are not very brilliant, are they? I don't know how many generations
of briefless barristers these chairs and tables have served. The rooms
have an atmosphere of failure; but they suit me very well. I am not
always here, you know. I spend a good deal of my time in the country."

"Whereabouts?"