Mrs. Toplady had begged him to come and see her.  Mrs. Toplady, vaguely known to him by name, would, but a short time ago, have turned him to flight; having talked with her at the restaurant, he inclined to think her a very intelligent and bright-witted woman, the kind of woman who did a service to Society by keeping it in touch with modern ideas.  After a little uneasy hesitation, he betook himself to Pont Street.  Next, he accepted an invitation to dine there, and found himself in the company of an old Lady Ogram, of whom he had never heard, and a girl with an odd name, her niece, who rather amused him.  Calling presently in Pont Street, to discharge his obligation of ceremony, he found Mrs. Toplady alone, and heard from her, in easy, half-confidential chat, a great deal about Lady Ogram and Miss Tomalin, information such as he would never himself have sought, but which, set off by his hostess’s pleasant manner, entertained and somewhat interested him.  For the young lady and her aged relative shone in no common light as Mrs. Toplady exhibited them.  The baronet’s widow became one of the most remarkable women of her time, all the more remarkable because of lowly origin; Miss Tomalin, heiress of a great fortune, had pure colonial blood in her veins, yet pursued with delightful zeal the finest culture of an old civilisation.  As Mrs. Toplady talked thus, the door opened to admit—­Mr. Lashmar, and there was an end of confidences for that day.

So far, Dymchurch had yielded without much reflection to the friendly pressure which brought him among strangers and disturbed his habits of seclusion.  These dinners and afternoon calls had no importance; very soon he would be going down into Somerset, where it might be hoped that he would think out the problems which worried him, and arrive at some clear decision about the future.  But when he found himself, reluctantly, yet as it seemed inevitably, setting forth to Mrs. Toplady’s “At Home,” the reasonable man in him grew restive.  Why was he guilty of this weakness?  Years had passed since he did anything so foolish as to leave home towards the middle of the night for the purpose of hustling amid a crowd of unknown people in staircases and drawing-rooms.  He saw himself as the victim of sudden fatuity, own brother to the longest-eared of fashion’s worshippers.  Assuredly this should be the last of his concessions.

Inwardly pishing and pshawing, he drifted about the rooms till brought up beside Miss Tomalin.  Then his mood changed.  This girl, with her queer mixture of naivete and conceit and examination-room pedantry, decidedly amused him.  Was she a type of the young Canadian?  He knew nothing of her life at Northampton, and thought she had come over from Canada only a year or two ago.  Yes, she amused him.  By contrast with the drawing-room young lady, of whom he had always been afraid, she seemed to have originality of character, spontaneity of talk.  Of course her learning was