'I am sorry he is so wedded to his pipes,' thought Ida with a faint sigh.
And then she turned to the cheffonier to inspect her lover's stock of literature.
A man who loves his books never travels without a few old favourites—Horace or Montaigne, Elia, an odd volume of De Quincey, a battered Don Juan, a worn-out Faust, a shabby Shelley, or a ponderous Burton in his threadbare cloth raiment.
But there was not one such book among Mr. Wendover's possessions. His supply of mental food consisted of a half a dozen shilling magazines, the two last numbers of Punch, and three or four sporting papers. Ida turned from them with bitter disappointment. She seemed to take the measure of Brian Wendover's mind in that frivolous collection, and she was deeply pained at the idea of his shallowness.
'What has he done with himself in the long evenings?' she asked herself.
'Has he done nothing but smoke and read those magazines?'
She took up the Cornhill, and found its graver essays uncut. It was the same with the other magazines. Only the most frivolous articles had been looked at. Mr. Wendover was evidently anything but a reading man.
'No wonder he does not like the Abbey,' she thought. 'The country must always seem dull to a man who does not care for books.'
And then she reminded herself remorsefully of his generous affection, his single-minded devotion to her, and how much gratitude she owed him.
She read all that was worth reading in the magazines, she laughed at all that was laughable in Punch, and the long, slow day wore on somehow. Mrs. Topman brought her lunch, and consulted her about dinner.
'You will not dine until Mr. Wendover comes back, I suppose, miss? You and he can have a nice little dinner together at seven.'