“I hear that Mr. Lashmar leaves Rivenoak to-morrow,” she said, referring to a letter that had arrived from Lady Ogram this evening.  “I hope he won’t be gone when the magazine arrives.”

“Indeed?  He comes back to-morrow?” said May.

“Not to London.  He goes to spend a day or two with his people, it seems.  You don’t know them?”

“Not at all.  I only know that his father is a rural clergyman.”

Mrs. Toplady had observed that May’s tone in speaking of Lashmar lacked something of its former vivacity.  The change had been noticeable since the announcement of the philosopher’s betrothal.  More than that; the decline of interest was accompanied by a tendency to speak of Lashmar as though pityingly, or perhaps even slightingly; and this it was that manifested itself in May’s last remark.

“I don’t think it’s very common;” Mrs. Toplady let fall, “for the country clergy—­or indeed the clergy anywhere—­to have brilliant sons.”

“It certainly isn’t,” May agreed.  And, after reflecting, she added:  “I suppose one may call Mr. Lashmar brilliant?”

Miss Tomalin had continued to profit by her opportunities.  Before coming to London, it would have been impossible for her to phrase a thought thus, and so utter it.  That easy superciliousness smacked not at all of provincial breeding.

“On the whole, I think so,” was Mrs. Toplady’s modulated reply.  “He has very striking ideas.  How odd that somebody else should have hit upon his theory of civilisation!  He ought to have written a book, as I told him.”

“But suppose,” suggested May, with some uneasiness, “that he knew about that French book?”

“Oh, my dear, we can’t suppose that!  Besides, we haven’t read the book.  It may really be quite different in its tendency from Mr. Lashmar’s view.”

“I don’t see how it can be, Mrs. Toplady.  Judging from those quotations, and the article, it’s Mr. Lashmar from beginning to end.”

“Then it’s a most curious case of coincidence.  Poor Mr. Lashmar will naturally be vexed.  It’s hard upon him, isn’t it?”

May did not at once respond.  The friend, watching her with the roguish smile, let fall another piece of intelligence.

“I hear that his marriage is to be in the autumn.”

“Indeed?” said May, indifferently.

“Between ourselves,” pursued the other, “didn’t you feel just a little surprised?”

“Surprised?”

“At his choice.  Oh, don’t misunderstand me.  I quite appreciate Miss Bride’s cleverness and seriousness.  But one couldn’t help thinking that a man of Mr. Lashmar’s promise—.  Perhaps you don’t see it in that way?”

“I really think they are rather well suited,” said May, again calmly supercilious.

“It may be so.  I had almost thought that—­how shall I express it?” Mrs. Toplady searched for a moment.  “Perhaps Lady Ogram might have made a suggestion, which Mr. Lashmar, for some reason, did not feel able to disregard.  He has quite a chivalrous esteem for Lady Ogram, haven’t you noticed?  I like to see it.  That kind of thing is rare nowadays.  No doubt he feels reason for gratitude; but how many men does one know who can be truly grateful?  That’s what I like in Mr. Lashmar; he has character as well as intellect.”