He had grasped May’s hand.  He was gazing eagerly, amorously into her face.  His emotions had matured since the meeting two days ago.

“Tell me all the news,” he went on.  “Is Dymchurch here?”

“Yes.  And the others.  You come to lunch to-day, of course?  You will see them.”

She recovered her hand, though not without a little struggle, which pleased her.  For all her academic modernism, May belonged to the class which has primitive traditions, unsophisticated instincts.

“And what has happened?” asked Dyce, advancing as she stepped back.  He spoke like one who has a right to the fullest information.

“Happened?  Nothing particular.  What could have happened?”

“I have been tormenting myself.  Of course I know why Dymchurch has come, and so do you.  I can’t go away in a horrible uncertainty.  If I do, I shall betray myself when I come to luncheon, so I give you warning.”

“What do you mean!” exclaimed the girl, with an air of dignity surprised.

“Tell me the truth.  Has Dymchurch spoken?”

“Many times,” answered May; smiling with excessive ingenuousness.  “He is not very talkative, but he doesn’t keep absolute silence—­I hear that you have been to see Mrs. Gallantry.”

“What do I care about Mrs. Gallantry!  I’ve seen no end of people, but all the time I was thinking of you.  Yesterday morning, I all but wrote to you.”

“What about?”

“All sorts of things.  Of course I should have disguised my handwriting in the address.”

May avoided his look, and shaped her lips to severity.  “If you had done such a thing—­I should have been greatly displeased.  I’m very glad you didn’t so far forget yourself.”

“So am I, now.  Won’t you tell me if anything has happened.  Won’t you put my mind at ease?”

“I can stay only for a few minutes.  There’s really nothing to tell—­nothing.  But you must have plenty of news.  How are things going on?”

Lashmar hurriedly told of two or three circumstances which seemed to favour him in the opening campaign.  There was now no doubt that Butterworth would be the Conservative candidate, and, on the whole, his name appeared to excite but moderate enthusiasm.  He broke off with an impatient gesture.

“I can’t talk about that stuff!  It’s waste of time, whilst I am with you.”

“But it interests me very much,” said May, who seemed to grow calmer as Dyce yielded to agitation.  “Lord Dymchurch says he would gladly help you, if it were in his power.  Don’t you think he might be of some use?”

“No, I don’t.  Dymchurch is a dreaming nobody.”

“What a strange way to speak of him!” said May, as if slightly offended.  “You used to have quite a different opinion.”

“Perhaps so.  I didn’t know him so well.  There’s nothing whatever in the man, and he’ll never do anything as long as he lives.  You know that as well as I do.”