John Saltram watched Marian Nowell's face thoughtfully as he talked to
her, for the most part, about the pictures which they were looking at
together. Before their inspection of these art-treasures was ended, he
was fain to confess to himself that she was intelligent as well as
beautiful. It was not that she had said anything particularly brilliant,
or had shown herself learned in the qualities of the old Dutch masters;
but she possessed that charming childlike capacity for receiving
information from a superior mind, and that perfect and rapid power of
appreciating a clever man's conversation, which are apt to seem so
delightful to the sterner sex when exhibited by a pretty woman. At first
she had been just a little shy and constrained in her talk with John
Saltram. Her lover's account of this man had not inspired her with any
exalted opinion of his character. She was rather inclined to look upon
him as a person to be dreaded, a friend whose influence was dangerous at
best, and who might prove the evil genius of Gilbert Fenton's life. But
whatever her opinion on this point might remain, her reserve soon melted
before John Saltram's clever talk and kindly conciliating manner. He laid
himself out to please on this occasion, and it was very rarely he did
that without succeeding.

"I want you to think of me as a kind of brother, Miss Nowell," he said in
the course of their talk. "Gilbert and I have been something like
brothers for the last twelve years of our lives, and it would be a hard
thing, for one of us at least, if our friendship should ever be lessened.
You shall find me discretion itself by-and-by, and you shall see that I
can respect Gilbert's altered position; but I shouldn't like to lose him,
and I don't think you look capable of setting your face against your
husband's old friend."

Marian blushed a little at this, remembering that only an hour or two ago