“I think you are mistaken,” May answered, in an absent voice, her look betraying some travail of the mind, as if she were really debating with herself the question of Dymchurch’s prospects.

“Do you mean that?” cried Lashmar, with annoyance.

“I certainly shouldn’t call him a ‘dreaming nobody,’” replied May, in the tone of dignified reproof.  “Lord Dymchurch is very thoughtful, and very well-informed, and has very high principles.”

“One may admit all that.  All I meant was that there is no career before him.  Would anyone dream of comparing him, for instance, with me?  You needn’t smile.  You remember the talk we had at Mrs. Toplady’s, that evening.  I know my own qualities, and see no use in pretending that I don’t.—­But what are we talking about!  Of course you care nothing for Dymchurch.  I know that very well.  If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

He ended on a little laugh of triumph, and therewith, catching hold of both her hands, he drew her gently forward, looked close into her face, murmured “May!  My beautiful May!” In that moment there came the strangest look upon May’s countenance, a look of alarm, almost of terror.  Her eyes were turned to a spot among the trees, some ten yards away.  Dyce, seeing the sudden change of her expression, turned in the direction of her gaze.  He was just in time to perceive the back of a retreating figure, which disappeared behind bushes.

“Who was that?” he asked in a startled voice.

May could only whisper.

“It was Lord Dymchurch.”

“I thought so.  Confound that fellow!  What is he doing here at this time of the morning?”

“He saw us,” said May, her cheeks burning.  “Oh, who could have expected—!  He saw us distinctly.  I shouldn’t wonder if he heard what you were saying Why,” she added, angrily, “did you speak so loud?”

“Nonsense!  He couldn’t hear at that distance.”

“But he had been nearer.”

“Then the fellow is a sneak!  What right has he to steal upon us?”

“He didn’t!” cried the girl.  “I saw him as he stopped.  I saw his face, and how astonished he looked.  He turned away instantly.”

“Well, what does it matter?” exclaimed Dyce, who was quivering with excitement.  “What do I care?  What need you care?  Haven’t we perfect liberty to meet?  After all, what does it matter?”

“But you forget,” said May, “that he knows of your engagement.”

“My engagement!  Let him know, and let him think what he likes!  My engagement, indeed!  Why, I haven’t once thought of it since I left London—­not once!  There’ll have to be an end to this intolerable state of things.  Dymchurch isn’t likely to tell anyone what he sees; he’s a gentleman.”

“I must go in at once,” cried May, losing her head.  “Somebody else may come.  Go away, please!  Don’t stay another minute.”

“But it’s impossible.  We have to come to an understanding.  Listen to me, May!”