Dyce had never known the old autocrat so babblingly iterative.  Nor had he ever beheld her in such a mood of gaiety, of exultation.

“Go and have a word with Constance,” she said at length.  “I rather think she’s going into the town; if so, you can go together.  She’s in great spirits.  It isn’t her way to talk much, but I can see she feels very hopeful.  By the bye, I’m expecting Sir William before dinner—­Sir William Amys, you know.  He may be here still when you come on Thursday.”

Why Lady Ogram should be so careful to conceal the fact’ that Lord Dymchurch was expected, Dyce found it difficult to understand.  But it was clear that Dymchurch had been invited in the hope, perhaps the certainty, that he would propose to May Tomalin.  That he was coming at all seemed, indeed, decisive as to his intentions.  Plainly, the old schemer had formed this project at the time of her visit to London, and, improbable as the thing would have appeared to any one knowing Dymchurch, she was carrying it successfully through.  On the one side; but how about May?  Dyce tried to assure himself that, being in love with him, May would vainly be wooed by anyone else.  But had she the courage to hold out against her imperious relative?  Could she safely do so?  The situation was extremely disquieting.  He wished it were possible to see May alone, even for a minute.  But he did not see her at all, and, as Lady Ogram had suggested, he found himself obliged to return to Hollingford in Constance’s company.  They drove in the landau.  On the way, Dyce made known to his companion Lady Ogram’s generous intentions.

“I knew she would do that,” said Constance, regarding him with the smile which betrayed her inmost thoughts.

Because of the proximity of their coachman, they talked in subdued tones, their heads close together.  To Lashmar this intimacy meant nothing at all; Constance, in his busy thoughts, was as good as non-existent.  He had remarked with vexation the aspect of renewed vigour presented by Lady Ogram, and would have spoken of it, but that he felt ashamed to do so.

“Don’t you think,” asked his companion, “that everything is going wonderfully well with you?”

“It looks so, for the present.”

“And, after all, whom have you to thank for it?”

“I don’t forget,” Dyce replied, wondering whether she alluded to the fact of her having introduced him to the mistress of Rivenoak, or to the terms of their engagement.

“If you win the election, don’t you think it would be graceful not only to feel, but to show, a little gratitude?”

She spoke in a voice which once more reminded him of the summer-house on that rainy morning, a voice very unlike her ordinary utterance, soft and playfully appealing.

“Don’t be so severe on me,” answered Dyce, with a laugh.  “I am not all self-interest.”

He added what was meant for a reassuring look, and began to talk of electioneering details.