while she sipped the beverage with that graceful air of suppressed
tenderness which constant practice in the drawing-rooms of Maida-hill had
rendered almost natural to him; but, do what he would, he could not
distract Mrs. Branston's thoughts and looks from John Saltram. It was on
him that her eyes were fixed while the accomplished Theobald was giving
her a lively account of a concert at the Eyre Arms; and it was the
fascination of his presence which made her answer at random to her
cousin's questions about the last volume of the Laureate's, which she had
been lately reading. Even Mr. Pallinson, obtuse as he was apt to be when
called upon to comprehend any fact derogatory to his own self-esteem,
was fain to confess to himself that this evening's efforts were futile,
and that this dark-faced stranger was the favourite for those matrimonial
stakes he had entered himself to run for. He looked at Mr. Saltram with a
critical eye many times in the course of the evening, wondering what
possible merit any sensible woman could perceive in such a man. But then,
as Theobald Pallinson reflected, the misfortune is that so few women are
sensible; and it was gradually becoming evident to him that Michael
Branston's widow was amongst the most foolish of her sex.

Mrs. Pallinson kept a sharp watch upon Adela throughout the evening,
plunging into the conversation every now and then with a somewhat
dictatorial and infallible air, and generally contriving to drag some
praise of Theobald into her talk: now dilating rapturously upon that
fever case which he had managed so wonderfully the other day, proving his
judgment superior to that of an eminent consulting physician; anon
launching out into laudation of his last poem, which had been set to
music by a young lady in St. John's-wood; and by-and-by informing the
company of her son's artistic talents, and his extraordinary capacity as
a judge of pictures. To these things the surgeon himself listened with a
deprecating air, smoothing his wristbands, and caressing his slim white