“Langtoft, yes,” said Dyce.  “I don’t quite know what to think of that fellow.  There seems to me something not quite genuine about him.  What is he doing at Lady Honeybourne’s garden party?  It looks like tuft-hunting—­don’t you think, Constance?”

Dyce was secretly annoyed that an idea of his own (that is to say, from his own French philosopher) should be put into practice by someone else before he could assert his claim to it.  Very vexatious that Langtoft’s activity was dragged into public notice just at this moment.

“I don’t at all like the tone of his last letter to you,” said Constance.  “He writes in a very flippant way, not a bit like a man in earnest.”

Not long ago, Miss Bride’s opinion of Langtoft would have been quite different.  Now, she was disposed to say things that Dyce Lashmar liked to hear.  Dyce had remarked the change in her; it flattered him, but caused him at the same time some uneasiness.

Inevitably, they passed much time together.  On the journey from London, Constance had asked him whether he would not like to begin cycling.  He received the suggestion with careless good-humour.  At Rivenoak, Constance returned to it, insisted upon it, and, as he had little to do, Dyce went into Hollingford for lessons; in a week’s time he could ride, and, on a brand-new bicycle of the most approved make, accompanied his nominally betrothed about the country ways.  Constance evidently enjoyed their rides together.  She was much more amiable in her demeanour, more cheerful in mind; she dropped the habit of irony, and talked hopefully of Lashmar’s prospects.

“What’s the news from Breakspeare?” she inquired, as they were pedalling softly along an easy road one afternoon, Dyce having spent the morning in Hollingford.

“Oh, he’s a prancing optimist,” Dyce replied.  “He sees everything rose-colour—­or pretends to, I’m not quite sure which.  If Dobbin the grocer meets him in the street, and. says he’s going to vote Liberal at next election, Breakspeare sings the Paean.”

“I notice that you seem rather doubtful, lately,” said Constance, her eyes upon him.

“Well, you know, there is a good deal of doubt.  It depends so much on what happens between now and the dissolution.”

He entered into political detail, showing the forces arrayed against him, dwelling on the in-grained Toryism of Hollingford, or, as he called it, the burgesses’ Robbish mind.

“There’s no use, is there, in blinking facts?”

“Of course not.  It’s what I never do, as I think you are aware.  We must remember that to contest the seat is something.  It makes you known.  If you don’t win, you will wait for the next chance—­not necessarily here.”

Dyce had observed that the pronoun “we” was rather frequently on Constance’s lips.  She was identifying their interests.

“True,” he admitted.  “Look at that magnificent sycamore!”