Shaking of the head dismissed this fancy.  Miss Tomalin was a matter-of-fact young person; he could not see her doing such a thing as this.  And yet—­and yet—­when he remembered their last talk, was it not conceivable that he had made a deeper impression upon her than, in his modesty, he allowed himself to suppose?  Had she not spoken, with a certain enthusiasm, of working on his behalf at Hollingford?  The disturbing event which. immediately followed had put Miss Tomalin into the distance; his mind had busied itself continuously with surmises as to the nature of the benefit he might expect if he married Constance.  After all, Lady Ogram’s niece might have had recourse to this expedient.  She, at all events, knew that he was staying at Rivenoak, and might easily not have heard on what day he would leave.  Or, perhaps, knowing that he left yesterday, she had calculated that the letter would reach him before his departure; it had possibly been delivered at Rivenoak by the mid-day post.

Amusing, the thought that Constance had herself re-addressed this communication!

Another possibility occurred to him.  What if the writer were indeed Iris Woolstan, and her motive quite disinterested?  What if she did not allude to herself at all, but was really pained at the thought of his making an insignificant marriage, when, by waiting a little, he was sure to win a wife suitable to his ambition?  Of this, too, Iris might well be capable.  Her last letter to him had had some dignity, and, all things considered, she had always shown herself a devoted, unexacting friend.  It seemed more likely, it seemed much more likely, than the other conjecture.

Nevertheless, suppose Miss Tomalin had taken this romantic step?  The supposition involved such weighty issues that he liked to harbour it, to play with it.  He pictured himself calling in Pont Street; he entered the drawing-room, and his eyes fell at once upon Miss Tomalin, in whose manner he remarked something unusual a constraint, a nervousness.  Saluting, he looked her fixedly in the face; she could not meet his regard; she blushed a little—­

Why, it was very easy to determine whether or not she had sent that letter.  In the case of Iris Woolstan, observation would have no certain results, for she must needs meet him with embarrassment.  But Miss Tomalin would be superhuman if she did not somehow betray a nervous conscience.

Dyce strode into the house.  His father and mother stood talking at the foot of the stairs, the vicar ready to go out.

“I must leave you at once,” he exclaimed, looking at his watch.  “Something I had forgotten—­an engagement absurdly dropt out of mind.  I must catch the next train—­10.14, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Lashmar sang out protest, but, on being assured that the engagement was political, urged him to make haste.  The vicar all but silently pressed his hand, and with head bent, walked away.