“A good deal, of course,” answered Dyce modestly.  “I had read for years, all sorts of scientific and historical books.”

“I rather wonder you didn’t write a book of your own.  Evidently you have all the material for one.  Don’t you think it might be well?”

“We have spoken of that, you know,” was Dyce’s careless reply.  “I prefer oral teaching.”

“Still, a solid book, such a one as you could easily write, would do you a great deal of good.  Do think about it, will you?” b Her voice had an unusual quality; it was persuasive, and almost gentle.  In speaking, she looked at him with eyes of unfamiliar expressiveness, and all the lines of her face had softened.

“Of course if you really think—­” began Lashmar, affecting to ponder the matter.

“I should so like you to do it,” Constance pursued, still with the markedly feminine accent, which she certainly did not assume.  “Will you—­to please me?”

Her eyes fell before the other’s quick, startled look.  There was a silence; rain pattered on the tiles.

“I’ll think about it,” Dyce replied at length, moving and speaking uneasily.  “It’s raining quite hard, you know,” he added, moving into the doorway.  “The roads will be no good after this.”

“No.  We had better go in,” said Constance, with sudden return to dry, curt speech.

It was evident that, in his anomalous situation, Lashmar’s method with women could not have fair play.  He was in no small degree beholden to Constance, and her odd behaviour of late kept him in mind of his obligation.  Doubtless, he thought, she intended that; and his annoyance at what he considered a lack of generosity outweighed the satisfaction his vanity might have found in her new manner towards him.  That manner, especially this morning, reminded him of six years ago.  Was Constance capable of exacting payment of a debt which she imagined him to have incurred at Alverholme?  Women think queerly, and are no less unaccountable in their procedure.

His curiosity busied itself with the vaguely indicated compact between Constance and Lady Ogram, but no word on the subject, not even a distant allusion to it, ever fell from his nominally betrothed, and the old lady herself, however amiable, spoke not at all of the things he desired to know.  Was it not grossly unjust to him?  Until he clearly understood Constance’s future position, how could he decide upon his course with regard to her?  Conceivably, the proposed marriage might carry advantages which it behooved him to examine with all care; conceivably also, it might at a given moment be his sole rescue from embarrassment or worse.  Meanwhile, ignorance of the essential factors of the problem put him at a grave disadvantage.  Constance was playing a game (so Dyce saw it) with all the cards visible before her, and, to such a profound observer as he, it was not unnatural to suppose that she played for something worth the while.  Curiously enough, Dyce did not presume to believe that he himself, his person, his mind, his probable career, were gain sufficient.  A singular modesty ruled his meditations at this juncture.