And yet—­and yet—­there glimmered another aspect of the matter.  Suppose Miss Tomalin followed her aunt’s example, and saw in him a coming man, and seriously interested herself in his fortunes?  Then, indeed, she would be by no means a superfluous young person; for who could say to what such interest might lead?  Miss Tomalin would be her aunt’s heiress, or so one might reasonably suppose.  And she was a very pretty girl, as well as intelligent.

Could it be that the real course of his destiny was only just beginning to reveal itself?

By this time, he felt better.  To pass an hour, he went into his club, read the papers, and looked, vainly, for Lord Dymchurch.

Greatly to his surprise, he found the world-shunning nobleman in Mrs. Toplady’s drawing-room; the hostess and he alone together—­it was early—­and seeming to have been engaged in rather intimate talk.

“Oh, this is nice!” exclaimed Mrs. Toplady.  “What have you to tell us?”

“Little of interest, I’m afraid—­except that I have lunched to-day with Lady Ogram and made the acquaintance of her niece.”

“We were speaking of her,” said the hostess, with very pronounced mischief at the corner of her lips, and eyes excessively gracious.

“You know Miss Tomalin?” Lashmar inquired, rather abruptly, of Lord Dymchurch.

“I have met her once,” was the colourless reply.

Dyce wished to ask where and when, but of course could not.  He resented this advantage of Lord Dymchurch.

“She is very clever,” the hostess was saying, “and quite charming.  A Canadian, you know, by birth.  Such a fresh way of looking at things; so bright and—­”

Other callers were announced.  Lord Dymchurch looked his desire to escape, but sat on.  You would have thought him a man with a troubled conscience.

CHAPTER XIII

A few days later, Lashmar found on his breakfast table a copy of the Hollingford Express, blue-pencilled at an editorial paragraph which. he read with interest.  The leaded lines announced that Hollingford Liberalism was at length waking up, that a campaign was being quietly but vigorously organised, and that a meeting of active politicians would shortly be held for the purpose of confirming a candidature which had already met with approval in influential circles.  The same post brought a letter from Mr. Breakspeare, “Will you,” asked the editor, “name a convenient date for meeting your friends and supporters?  Say, about the 20th of this month.  I am working up enthusiasm.  We shall take the public room at the Saracen’s Head.  Admission to be by invitation card.  I write to Lady Ogram, and no doubt you will consult with her.”

This looked like business.  Dyce reflected rather nervously that he would have to make a speech—­a practical speech; he must define his political attitude; philosophical generalities would not serve in the public room at the Saracen’s Head.  Well, he had a fortnight to think about it.  And here was an excuse for calling on Lady Ogram, of which he would avail himself at once.