the hour to the superstition of sobriety. On the Saturdays I used
to bring my portmanteau, so as not to have to think of eleven
o'clock trains. I had a bold theory that as regards this temple of
talk and its altars of cushioned chintz, its pictures and its
flowers, its large fireside and clear lamplight, we might really
arrive at something if the Mulvilles would but charge for
admission. Here it was, however, that they shamelessly broke down;
as there's a flaw in every perfection this was the inexpugnable
refuge of their egotism. They declined to make their saloon a
market, so that Saltram's golden words continued the sole coin that
rang there. It can have happened to no man, however, to be paid a
greater price than such an enchanted hush as surrounded him on his
greatest nights. The most profane, on these occasions, felt a
presence; all minor eloquence grew dumb. Adelaide Mulville, for
the pride of her hospitality, anxiously watched the door or
stealthily poked the fire. I used to call it the music-room, for
we had anticipated Bayreuth. The very gates of the kingdom of
light seemed to open and the horizon of thought to flash with the
beauty of a sunrise at sea.

In the consideration of ways and means, the sittings of our little
board, we were always conscious of the creak of Mrs. Saltram's
shoes. She hovered, she interrupted, she almost presided, the
state of affairs being mostly such as to supply her with every
incentive for enquiring what was to be done next. It was the
pressing pursuit of this knowledge that, in concatenations of
omnibuses and usually in very wet weather, led her so often to my
door. She thought us spiritless creatures with editors and
publishers; but she carried matters to no great effect when she
personally pushed into back-shops. She wanted all moneys to be