not intended to be all pleasure, was an idea that never yet troubled
Adela Branston's mind. She had been petted and spoiled by everyone about
her from the beginning of her brief life, and had passed from the
frivolous career of a school-girl to a position of wealth and
independence as Michael Branston's wife; fully believing that, in making
the sacrifice involved in marrying a man forty years her senior, she
earned the right to take her own pleasure, and to gratify every caprice
of her infantile mind, for the remainder of her days. She was supremely
selfish in an agreeable unconscious fashion, and considered herself a
domestic martyr whenever she spent an hour in her husband's sick-room,
listening to his peevish accounts of his maladies, or reading a _Times_
leader on the threatening aspect of things in the City for the solace of
his loneliness and pain.

The popping of corks sounded merrily amidst the buzz of conversation, and
great antique silver tankards of Badminton and Moselle cup were emptied
as by magic, none knowing how except the grave judicial-looking butler,
whose omniscient eye reigned above the pleasant confusion of the scene.
And after about an hour and a half wasted in this agreeable indoor
picnic, Mrs. Branston and her friends adjourned to the drawing-room,
where the grand piano had been pushed into a conspicuous position, and
where the musical business of the evening speedily began.

It was very pleasant sitting by the open windows in the summer twilight,
with no artificial light in the room, except the wax candles on the
piano, listening to good music, and talking a little now and then in that
subdued confidential tone to which music makes such an agreeable
accompaniment.

Adela Branston sat in the midst of a group in a wide bay window, and