So it was with radiant face that she appeared at the breakfast table.  Constance and she shook hands as usual; with everyday words.  It seemed to her that she saw disquiet in the secretary’s countenance—­after all, what was Miss Bride but a salaried secretary?  Lashmar’s betrothed might well suffer uneasiness, under the circumstances; she, it was obvious, did not regard the engagement as a mere pretence.  No, no; Constance Bride was ambitious, and thought it a great thing to marry a man with a parliamentary career before him.  She was of a domineering, jealous nature, and it would exasperate her to feel that Lashmar merely used her for his temporary purposes.  Noble self-sacrifice, indeed!  Lashmar himself did not believe that.  Best of all things, at this moment, May would have liked to make known her power over Lashmar, and to say, “Of course, dear Miss Bride, he is nothing whatever to me.  In my position, you understand—­”

There had been a few moments’ silence, when Constance asked: 

“Do you ever hear of Mr. Yabsley?”

Was the woman a thought-reader?  At that instant May had been thinking—­the first time for weeks, perhaps—­of her Admirable Crichton in the old Northampton days, and reflecting with gratification on the vast change which had come upon her life and her mind since she followed Mr. Yabsley’s spiritual direction.  Startled, she gazed at the speaker.

“How odd that you should have remembered his name!”

“Not at all.  I heard it so often when you first came here.”

“Did you?” said May, pretending to be amused.  “Mr. Yabsley is a remarkable man, and I value his friendship.  You remind me that I really ought to write to him.”

Constance seemed to lose all her interest in the matter, and spoke of something trivial.

In the course of the morning there happened a singular thing.

Lady Ogram rose earlier than usual.  Before leaving her room, she read in the Hollingford Express all about the sudden death of Mr. Robb.  The event had kept her awake all night.  Though on the one side a disappointment, for of late she had counted upon Robb’s defeat at the next election as an all but certain thing, the fact that she had outlived her enemy, that he lay, as it were, at her feet, powerless ever again to speak an insulting word, aroused all the primitive instincts of her nature.  With the exultation of a savage she gloated over the image of Robb stricken to the ground.  Through the hours of darkness, she now and then sang to herself, and the melodies were those she had known when a girl, or a child, common songs of the street.  It was her chant of victory and revenge.