“Of course I’m glad to hear you speak like that,” said the vicar, venturing only a glance at his son’s face.

“Don’t, I beg, worry about your affairs,” pursued Dyce, with kindling eye.  “Cut off my supplies, and go quietly on.”  He stretched out a soothing hand, palm downwards.  “The responsibility for the future is mine; from to-night I take it upon myself.”

Much more in the same vein did Dyce pour forth, obviously believing every word he said, and deriving great satisfaction from the sound of his praises.  He went to bed, at length, in such a self-approving frame of mind that no sooner had he laid his head on the pillow than sweet sleep lapped him about, and he knew nothing more till the sunlight shimmered at his window.

A letter awaited him at the breakfast table; it had been forwarded from his London address, and he knew at a glance that it came from Mrs. Woolstan, the mother of his pupil.  The lady, dating from a house at West Hampstead, wrote thus: 

“Dear Mr. Lashmar, “You will be surprised to hear from me so soon again.  I particularly want to see you.  Something has happened which we must talk over at once.  I shall be alone tomorrow afternoon.  Do come if you possibly can.

“Sincerely yours,

“Iris Woolstan.”

Dyce had come down in a mood less cheerful than that of over-night.  As happened sometimes, he had slept too soundly; his head was not quite clear, and his nerves felt rather unsteady.  This note from Mrs. Woolstan, he knew not why, caused him uneasiness; a vague prevision of ill was upon him as he read.

He had intended passing the day at Alverholme, and, on the morrow, travelling to Hollingford.  Now he felt no inclination to hazard a call upon Lady Ogram; he would return to London forthwith.

“No bad news, I hope?” said his father, when this purpose was announced.

“Mrs. Woolstan wants me back sooner than I expected, that’s all.”

His mother’s lips curled disdainfully.  To be at the beck and call of a Mrs. Woolstan, seemed to her an ignoble thing.  However, she had learnt the tenor of Dyce’s discourse of the evening before, and tried once more to see a radiance in his future.

CHAPTER III

Hair the hue of an autumn elm-leaf; eyes green or blue, as the light fell upon them; a long, thin face, faintly freckled over its creamy pallor, with narrow arch of eyebrow, indifferent nose, childlike lips and a small, pointed chin;—­thus may one suggest the portrait of Iris Woolstan.  When Dyce Lashmar stepped into her drawing-room, she had the air of one who has been impatiently expectant.  Her eyes widened in a smile of nervous pleasure; she sprang up, and offered her hand before the visitor was near enough to take it.

“So kind of you to come!  I was half afraid you might have gone out of town not that it would have mattered.  I did really want to see you as soon as possible, but Monday would have done just as well.”