say, a
substantial fortune--he might be content to accept it, but it could not
be more than a compromise; he aimed at a very different sort of
alliance. Moreover, he knew nothing of Lady Ogram's real intentions
with regard to Constance; her mysterious phrases merely perplexed and
annoyed him as often as he thought of them. To marry Constance
_without_ a substantial fortune--that were disaster indeed! And what if
Lady Ogram's favour depended upon it?

But he had his little dinner to think of. He wrote to Mrs. Woolstan,
who, by return of post, blithely accepted his invitation, begging him,
at the same time, to come and see her before then, if he could possibly
spare an hour. Dyce threw the letter aside impatiently. On Sunday he
was in Pont Street, where he met the Parliamentary Mr. Roach, a young
man fairly answering to Mrs. Toplady's description; an idealist of a
mild type, whose favourite talk was of "altruism," and who, whilst
affecting close attention to what other people said, was always
absorbed in his own thoughts. Before Lashmar had been many minutes in
the drawing-room, there entered Mrs. Woolstan, and she soon found an
occasion for brief exchange of words with him.

"Why haven't you been to see me yet?"

"I'm so terribly busy. Of course I ought to have come. I thought of
to-morrow--but now that we've met here, and are going to dine on the
27th--"

"Oh, I know you _must_ be busy!" conceded Iris, with panting emphasis
and gladness. "How splendidly everything's going! But I want to hear
about it all, you know. Your letter about Rivenoak only made me eager
to know more--"

"We'll have an afternoon presently. Ask Mrs. Toplady to introduce Mr.
Roach--he dines with us on the 27th."

To make sure of the M. P., Lashmar invited him verbally, and received a
dreamy acceptance--so dreamy that he resolved to send a note, to remind
Mr. Roach of the engagement.

"So you are to be one of us, at Mr. Lashmar's dinner," said the hostess
to Mrs. Woolstan. "A delightful evening--won't it be!"

And she watched the eager little face with eyes which read its every
line remorselessly: her smile more pitiless in ironic mischief even
than of wont.

On the morning of May the 28th, Lashmar wrote a full letter to
Rivenoak. It told of a dinner successful beyond his hopes. Mrs. Toplady
had surpassed herself in brilliant graciousness; Lord Dymchurch had
broken through his reserve, and talked remarkably--most remarkably. "As
for the