en, with a
certain enthusiasm, of working on his behalf at Hollingford? The
disturbing event which immediately followed had put Miss Tomalin into
the distance; his mind had busied itself continuously with surmises as
to the nature of the benefit he might expect if he married Constance.
After all, Lady Ogram's niece _might_ have had recourse to this
expedient. She, at all events, knew that he was staying at Rivenoak,
and might easily not have heard on what day he would leave. Or,
perhaps, knowing that he left yesterday, she had calculated that the
letter would reach him before his departure; it had possibly been
delivered at Rivenoak by the mid-day post.

Amusing, the thought that Constance had herself re-addressed this
communication!

Another possibility occurred to him. What if the writer were indeed
Iris Woolstan, and her motive quite disinterested? What if she did not
allude to herself at all, but was really pained at the thought of his
making an insignificant marriage, when, by waiting a little, he was
sure to win a wife suitable to his ambition? Of this, too, Iris might
well be capable. Her last letter to him had had some dignity, and, all
things considered, she had always shown herself a devoted, unexacting
friend. It seemed more likely, it seemed much more likely, than the
other conjecture.

Nevertheless, suppose Miss Tomalin _had_ taken this romantic step? The
supposition involved such weighty issues that he liked to harbour it,
to play with it. He pictured himself calling in Pont Street; he entered
the drawing-room, and his eyes fell at once upon Miss Tomalin, in whose
manner he remarked something unusual a constraint, a nervousness.
Saluting, he looked her fixedly in the face; she could not meet his
regard; she blushed a little--

Why, it was very easy to determine whether or not she had sent that
letter. In the case of Iris Woolstan, observation would have no certain
results, for she must needs meet him with embarrassment. But Miss
Tomalin would be superhuman if she did not somehow betray a nervous
conscience.

Dyce strode into the house. His father and mother stood talking at the
foot of the stairs, the vicar ready to go out.

"I must leave you at once," he exclaimed, looking at his watch.
"Something I had forgotten--an engagement absurdly dropt out of mind. I
must catch the next train--10.14, isn't it?"

Mrs. Lashmar sang out protest, but, on being assured that the
engagement was political, urged