"You see, the fact of the matter is, Gil," he began at last, "as I told
you just now, if ever I do marry, mercenary considerations are likely to
be at the bottom of the business. I don't mean to say that I would marry
a woman I disliked, and take it out of her in ill-usage or neglect. I am
not quite such a scoundrel as that. But if I had the luck to meet with a
woman I _could_ like, tolerably pretty and agreeable, and all that kind
of thing, and weak enough to care for me--a woman with a handsome
fortune--I should be a fool not to snap at such a chance."

"I see," exclaimed Gilbert, "you have met with such a woman."

"I have."

Again the gloomy look came over the dark strongly-marked face, the thick
black eyebrows contracted in a frown, and the cane was struck impatiently
against John Saltram's boot.

"But you are not in love with her; I see that in your face, Jack. You'll
think me a sentimental fool, I daresay, and fancy I look at things in a
new light now that I'm down a pit myself; but, for God's sake, don't
marry a woman you can't love. Tolerably pretty and agreeable won't do,
Jack,--that means indifference on your part; and, depend upon it, when a
man and woman are tied together for life, there is only a short step from
indifference to dislike."

"No, Gilbert, it's not that," answered the other, still moodily
contemplative of his boots. "I really like the lady well enough--love
her, I daresay. I have not had much experience of the tender passion
since I was jilted by an Oxford barmaid--whom I would have married, by