“What did you wish to speak about?” she asked, with an air meant to be strikingly natural.

“Don’t let me startle you; it was about my engagement to Miss Bride.”

This time, Dyce felt he could not he mistaken.  She was confused; he saw colour mounting on her neck; the surprise she tried to convey in smiling was too obviously feigned.

“Isn’t that rather an odd subject of conversation?”

“It seems so, but wait till you have heard what I have to say.  It is on Miss Bride’s account that I speak.  You are her friend, and I feel that, in mere justice to her, I ought to tell you a very strange story.  It is greatly to her honour.  She couldn’t tell you the truth herself, and of course you will not be able to let her know that you know it.  But it will save you from possible misunderstanding of her, enable you to judge her fairly.”

May hardly disguised her curiosity.  It absorbed her self-consciousness, and she looked the speaker straight in the face.

“To come to the point at once,” pursued Lashmar, our engagement is not a genuine one.  Miss Bride has not really consented to marry me.  She only consents to have it thought that she has done so.  And very generous, very noble, it is of her.”

“What a strange thing!” the girl exclaimed, as ingenuously as she had ever spoken in her life.

“Isn’t it!  I can explain in a word or two.  Lady Ogram wished us to marry; it was a favourite project of hers.  She spoke to me about it—­putting me in a very difficult position, for I felt sure that Miss Bride had no such regard for me as your aunt supposed.  I postponed, delayed as much as possible, and the result was that Lady Ogram began to take my behaviour ill.  The worst of it was, her annoyance had a had effect on her health.  I think you know that Lady Ogram cannot bear contradiction.”

“I know that she doesn’t like it,” said May, her chin rising a little.

“You, of course, are favoured.  You have exceptional influence.  But I can assure you that it would have been a very unpleasant thing to have to tell Lady Ogram either that I couldn’t take the step she wished, or that Miss Bride rejected me.”

“I can believe that,” said May indulgently.

“When I saw that she was making herself ill about it, I took the resolve to speak frankly to Miss Bride.  The result was—­our pretended engagement.”

“Was it your suggestion?” inquired the listener.

“Yes, it came from me,” Dyce answered, with half real, half affected, embarrassment.  “Of course I felt it to be monstrous impudence, but, as some excuse for me, you must remember that Miss Bride and I have known each other for many years, that we were friends almost in childhood.  Perhaps I was rather a coward.  Perhaps I ought to have told your aunt the truth, and taken the consequences.  But Miss Bride, no less than I, felt afraid of them.”

“What consequences?”