u hadn't
said those unlucky words about being so sure--"

"I don't see that they make the slightest difference," answered
Constance, her eyebrows raised. "If you had intended a genuine offer of
marriage--yes, perhaps. But as all you meant was to ask me to save the
situation, with no harm to anybody, and the certainty of giving great
pleasure to our friend--"

"You see it in that light?" cried Lashmar, flinging away his hat. "You
really think I should be justified? You are not offended?"

"I credit myself with a certain measure of common sense," answered
Constance.

"Then you will allow me to tell Lady Ogram that there is an engagement?"

"You may tell her so, if you like."

He seized her hand, and pressed his lips upon it. But, scarce had he
done so, when Constance drew it brusquely away.

"There is no need to play our comedy in private," she said, with cold
reproof. "And I hope that at all times you will use the discretion that
is owing to me."

"If I don't, I shall deserve to fall into worse difficulties than
ever," cried Lashmar.

"As, for instance, to find yourself under the necessity of making your
mock contract a real one--which would be sufficiently tragic."

Constance spoke with a laugh, and thereupon, before Dyce could make any
rejoinder, walked from the room.

The philosopher stood embarrassed. "What did she mean by that?" he
asked himself. He had never felt on very solid ground in his dealings
with Constance; had never felt sure in his reading of her character,
his interpretation of her ways and looks and speeches. An odd thing
that he should have been betrayed by his sense of triumphant diplomacy
into that foolish excess. And he remembered that it was the second such
indiscretion, though this time, happily, not so compromising as his
youthful extravagance at Alverholme.

What if Lady Ogram, feeling that her end drew near, called for their
speedy marriage? Was it the thought of such possibility that had
supplied Constance with her sharp-edged jest? If she could laugh, the
risk did not seem to her very dreadful. And to him?

He could not make up his mind on the point.

CHAPTER XV

Lord Dymchurch was at a critical moment of his life.

Discontent, the malady of the age, had taken hold upon him. No ignoble
form of the disease; for his mind, naturally in accord with generous
thoughts, repelled every suggestion which he recognised as of unworthy
origin, and no man saw more clearly how m