In the afternoon he went to Bunting’s Hotel, but Lady Ogram was not at home.  He inquired for Miss Bride, and was presently led up to the private drawing-room, where Constance sat writing.  As they shook hands, their eyes scarcely met.

“Can you spare me a few minutes?” asked the visitor.  “There’s something here I wanted to show Lady Ogram; but I shall be still more glad to talk it over with you.”

Constance took the newspaper and Breakspeare’s note.  As she read, her firm-set lips relaxed a little.  She handed the papers back with a nod.

“Has Lady Ogram heard?” Dyce asked.

“Yes; she had a letter this morning, and I have answered it.  She was pleased So far, so good.  You have had Mrs. Toplady’s card for the evening of the 13th?”

“I have.”

“One of the Liberal whips will be there—­an opportunity for you.”

Every time he saw her, Constance seemed to be drier and more laconic.  Their intercourse promised to illustrate to the full his professed ideal of relation between man and woman in friendship; every note of difference in sex would soon be eliminated, if indeed that point were not already attained.

“Won’t you sit down?” asked Miss Bride, carelessly; for Dyce had thrown hat and stick aside, and was moving about with his hands in his pockets.

“But you’re busy.”

“Not particularly.”

“How is our friend?”

“Lady Ogram?  Pretty well, I think, but overtaxing herself.  I don’t think she’ll be able to stay here long.  It certainly wouldn’t be wise.”

“Of course it’s on her niece’s account.  By the bye—­” Dyce paused before Constance’s chair—­“where has this niece sprung from?  You told me she hadn’t a relative in the world.”

“So she believed.  Miss Tomalin is a recent discovery—­the fruit of Mr. Kerchever’s researches.”

“Ah!  That’s rather amusing.  Lucky, I imagine, that she is such a presentable person.  She might have been—­”

He checked himself significantly, and Constance allowed an absent smile to pass over her face.

“I’m afraid,” Dyce continued, “this change won’t be quite pleasant to you?”

“To me?  It makes no difference—­none whatever.  Will you please sit down?  I dislike to talk with anyone who keeps fidgeting about.”

One might have detected more than discomfort in Miss Bride’s look and voice.  A sudden flash of something very like anger shone in her eyes; but they were bent and veiled.

“Let us talk about Hollingford,” said Lashmar, drawing up a chair.  “It begins to look as if things were really in train.  Of course, I shall go down to talk to them.  Will you help me in putting my programme together?”

“Isn’t that already done?”

“Why, no.  What do I care about their party questions?  I’m sure your advice would be valuable.  Could you find time to jot down a few ideas?”

“If you think it any use, certainly.  I can’t promise to do it this evening; we have people to dine.”