, but the feeling of dislike with which he had
recently come to regard her had quite passed away. He did not love
Constance, but what a capable woman she was!--and what a help she would
be to him in his career! Her having detected his philosophic plagiarism
seemed to him now rather a good thing than otherwise; it spared him the
annoyance of intellectual dishonesty in his domestic life, and put them
in a position to discuss freely the political and social views by which
he was to stand. After all, Constance was the only woman he knew whose
intelligence he really respected. After all, remembering their intimacy
long ago at Alverholme, he felt a fitness in this fated sequel. It gave
him the pleasant sense of honourable conduct.

He smiled at the thought that he had fancied himself in love with May
Tomalin. The girl was a half-educated simpleton, who would only have
made him ridiculous. Her anonymous letter pointed to a grave fault of
breeding; it would always have been suggestive of disagreeable
possibilities. May was thoroughly plebeian in origin, and her
resemblance to Lady Ogram might develop in a way it made him shudder to
think of. Constance Bride came of gentlefolk, and needed only the
favour of circumstances to show herself perfectly at ease in whatever
social surroundings. She had a natural dignity, which, now he came to
reflect upon it, he had always observed with pleasure. What could have
been more difficult than her relations with Lady Ogram? Yet she had
always borne herself with graceful independence.

Poor girl! She had gone through a hard time these last four weeks, and
no wonder if she broke down under the strain of a situation such as
that which ended in Lady Ogram's death. He would make up to her for it
all. She should understand him, and rest in perfect confidence. Yes, he
would reveal to her his whole heart and mind, so that no doubt of him,
no slightest distrust, could ever disturb her peace. Not only did he
owe her this complete sincerity; to him it would be no less delightful,
no less tranquillising.

He sat down to write a note.

"Dear Constance--" yes, that sufficed. "When can I see you? Let it be
as soon as possible. Of course you have understood my silence. Do you
stay at Rivenoak a little longer? Let me come to-morrow, if possible."

After a little reflection, he signed himself, "Ever yours, D. L."

Having despatched this by private messenger, he went out and took a
walk, choosing the direc