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.' Ida blushed at the mere notion of hobnobbing alone with a gentleman in that water-side lodging. 'No thanks; this will be my dinner,' she answered quietly. 'Please don't get anything more for me. No doubt Mr. Wendover will dine at the hotel, if he has not dined in London. I shall want nothing more except a cup of tea.' After luncheon Ida went out and strolled by the river, that river of which no one ever seems to grow weary. She wandered about the level meadows, where the last of the wild-flowers were blooming, or she sat on the bank, watching the ripple of the water, the slow smooth passage of pleasure-boat or barge, and the day was long but not dreary. It was so new to her to be idle, to be able to fold her hands and watch the stream, and not to fear reproof because she had ceased from toil. At Mauleverer, at this tranquil afternoon hour, while those rooks were sailing so calmly high above her head--yonder belated butterfly fluttering so happily over the feathery grasses--all nature so full of rest--they were grinding away in the hot schoolroom, grinding at the weekly geography lesson, addling their brains with feeble efforts to repeat by rote dry-as-dust explanations about the equator and the torrid zone, latitude, longitude, winds and tides, the height of mountains, the population of towns, manufactures, creeds; not trying in the least to understand, or caring to remember; only intent on getting over to-day's trouble and preparing in some wise to meet the debts of to-morrow.