“Quite well.”

“When did you come away?”

“Early yesterday morning,” Dyce replied.

May’s eyebrows twitched; her look fell.

“I went to Alverholme,” Dyce continued, “to see my people.”

May turned her eyes to the window.  Uneasiness appeared in her face.  “She wants to know”—­said Dyce to himself—­“whether I have received that letter.”

“Do you stay in town?” inquired Mrs. Toplady.

“For a week or two, I think.”  He added, carelessly, “A letter this morning, forwarded from Rivenoak, brought me back.”

May made a nervous movement, and at once exclaimed: 

“I suppose your correspondence is enormous, Mr. Lashmar?”

“Enormous—­why no.  But interesting, especially of late.”

“Of course—­a public man—­”

Impossible to get assurance.  The signs he noticed might mean nothing at all; on the other hand, they were perhaps decisive.  More about the letter of this morning he durst not say, lest, if this girl had really written it, she should think him lacking in delicacy, in discretion.

“Very kind of you, to come to me at once,” said Mrs. Toplady.  “Is there good news of the campaign?  Come and see me to-morrow, can you?  This afternoon I have an engagement.  I shall only just have time to see Miss Tomalin safe in the railway carriage.”

Dyce made no request to be set down.  After this remark of Mrs. Toplady’s, a project formed itself in his mind.  When the carriage entered Euston Road, rain was still falling.

“This’ll do good,” he remarked.  “The country wants it.”

His thoughts returned to the morning, a week ago, when Constance and he had been balked of their ride by a heavy shower.  He saw the summer-house among the trees; he saw Constance’s face, and heard her accents.

They reached the station.  As a matter of course, Dyce accompanied his friends on to the platform, where the train was already standing.  Miss Tomalin selected her scat.  There was leave-taking.  Dyce walked away with Mrs. Toplady, who suddenly became hurried.

“I shall only just have time,” she said, looking at the clock.  “I’m afraid my direction—­northward—­would only take you more out of your way.”

Dyce saw her to the brougham, watched it drive off.  There remained three minutes before the departure of Miss Tomalin’s train.  He turned back into the station; he walked rapidly, and on the platform almost collided with a heavy old gentleman whom an official was piloting to a carriage.  This warm-faced, pompous-looking person he well knew by sight.  Another moment, and he stood on the step of the compartment where May had her place.  At sight of him, she half rose.

“What is it?  Have I forgotten something?”

The compartment was full.  Impossible to speak before these listening people.  In ready response to his embarrassed look, May alighted.

“I’m so sorry to have troubled you,” said Dyce, with laughing contrition.  “I thought it might amuse you to know that Mr. Robb is in the train!”