“Only one.  He doesn’t care for ‘At Homes.’  Mrs. Toplady says he hardly ever goes anywhere, and she fancies”—­May laughed lightly—­“that he came to-night only because I was going to be there.  Do you think it likely, aunt?”

“Why, I don’t think it impossible,” replied Lady Ogram, in a tone of relief.  “I have known more unlikely things.  And suppose it were true?”

“Oh, it’s very complimentary, of course.”

The old eyes dwelt upon the young face, and with a puzzled expression.  Notwithstanding her own character, it was difficult for Lady Ogram to imagine that the girl seriously regarded herself as superior to Lord Dymchurch.

“Perhaps it’s more than a compliment,” she said, in rather a mumbling voice; and she added, with an effort to speak distinctly, “I suppose you didn’t tire him with that talk about Old English?”

“Tire him?” May exclaimed.  “Way, he was delighted!”

“But he seems to have been satisfied with the one talk.”

“Oh, he went away because Mr. Lashmar came up, that was all.  He’s very modest; perhaps he thought he oughtn’t to prevent me from talking to other people.”

Lady Ogram looked annoyed and worried.

“If I were you, May, I shouldn’t talk about Old English next time you see Lord Dymchurch.  Men don’t care to find themselves at school in a drawing-room.”

“I assure you, aunt, that is not my only subject of conversation,” replied May, amused and dignified.  “And I’m perfectly certain that it was just the thing for Lord Dymchurch.  He has a serious mind, and I like him to know that mine is the same.”

“That’s all right, of course.  I dare say you know best what pleases him.  And I think it very probable indeed, May, that he went to Pont Street just in the hope of meeting you.”

“Perhaps so.”

May smiled, and seemed to take the thing as very natural; whereupon Lady Ogram again looked puzzled.

“Well, go to bed, May.  I’m very glad Lord Dymchurch was there; very glad.  Go to bed, and sleep as late as you like.  I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself, and I’m very glad Lord Dymchurch was there—­ very.”

The voice had become so senile, so indistinct, that May could hardly catch what it said.  She lightly kissed her aunt’s cheek—­a ceremony that passed between them only when decorum seemed to demand it—­and left the room.

On the following morning, Dyce Lashmar received a telegram, couched thus: 

“Please call at Bunting’s Hotel at 3 this afternoon.”

In order to respond to this summons, he had to break an engagement; but he did it willingly.  Around the hotel in Albemarle Street circled all his thoughts, and he desired nothing more than to direct his steps thither.  Arriving with perfect punctuality, he was shown into Lady Ogram’s drawing-room, and found Lady Ogram alone.  Artificial complexion notwithstanding, the stern old visage wore to-day a look as of nature all but spent.  At Lashmar’s entrance, his hostess did not move; sunk together in her chair, head drooping forward, she viewed him from under her eyebrows:  even to give her hand when he stood before her seemed almost too great an effort, and the shrivelled lips scarce made audible her bidding that he should be seated.