His first evening in the house was not very bright. Mrs. Wilkinson had never been a bright woman. She had certain motherly good qualities, which had been exerted in George's favour in his earliest years; and on this account she was still able to speak to him in a motherly way. She could talk to him about his breakfasts and dinners, and ask after his buttons and linen, and allude to his bachelor habits. And in such conversation the first evening was chiefly passed. Adela said almost nothing. The Wilkinson girls, who were generally cheerful themselves, were depressed by Adela's sorrow--and depressed also somewhat by what they knew of Bertram's affairs. On this matter Mrs. Wilkinson was burning to speak; but she had made up her mind to leave it in silence for one evening. She confined herself, therefore, to the button question, and to certain allusions to her own griefs. It appeared that she was not quite so happy with reference to Arthur as one would have wished her to be. She did not absolutely speak against him; but she said little snubbing things of him, and seemed to think him by no means sufficiently grateful for all the care she took of him. That night, in the privacy of Adela's own room, something was said about George Bertram. "I am sure he does not know it yet," said Sophia. "Caroline told me she would write to him," said Adela: "she would be very wrong not to do so--very wrong." "You may be sure he has not heard it," repeated the other. "Did you not observe the way he spoke of Mr. Harcourt?" "Sir Henry Harcourt," said Mary. "I did not hear it," said Adela. "Oh, he did speak of him. He said something about his great good fortune. He never would have spoken in that way had he known it." "Do you know," said Mary, "I do not think he would have come down here had he heard it--not yet, at least."