“He won’t believe that story.  If he does, he’ll think it very dishonourable.”

Dyce checked the words in amorous fashion, but they conveyed an unpleasant truth, which he turned about in his mind as he hastened towards the interview with Dymchurch.  For once in his life, however, he saw a clear course of action before him, indicated alike by interest and by honour.  He was roused by supreme impulse and necessity; seeing him as he strode along, you might have supposed him bent on some very high purpose, so gallantly did he hold his head, and so radiant was his visage.  There are men capable of viewing themselves as heroes in very unheroic situations, and Lashmar was one of them.  Because his business with Dymchurch and with Constance would be distinctly disagreeable, and yet he was facing it without hesitation, his conscience praised him aloud.  Nothing less than brilliant issue could be the reward of such noble energy.

Meanwhile, May had begun to retrace her steps through the little wood.  She wished to go quickly, but was afraid, if she did so, of overtaking Lord Dymchurch.  In her, too, the self-approving mind was active; she applauded herself for having given the preference to love over ambition.  With the choice of becoming a peeress, she had bestowed her beauty, intellect, wealth upon a man who had nothing to offer but his hopes.  Was not this nobler than any nobility of rank?  The sentimentality of a hundred novels surged within her; verses of Browning chanted in her brain.  “Love is best!” She walked a heroine of passion.  All obstacles would fall before her burning resolve.  This was living in high romance!

She passed from among the trees into the open park and there before her stood the man she least wished to see.  He had evidently been waiting; he began to move towards her.  A score of more or less ingenious lies rose to her tongue, instinctively; but she remembered that deceit was not called for.  Lord Dymchurch had raised his hat.  He looked very grave, but not at all ill-tempered.  May did not offer her hand.  After the “good-morning,” he walked beside her, and at once began to speak.

“I find I must leave Rivenoak, Miss Tomalin.”  His voice was low, gentle, not unkind.

“Must you indeed, Lord Dymchurch?”

“I’m afraid I must,” he answered quietly.

“I am so sorry.  But you will be able to see Lady Ogram?”

“I fear not.  I wish to leave almost at once.”

They were drawing near to the garden.  Dymchurch paused, glanced at his companion with sad eyes, and, his look cast down, again spoke.

“Miss Tomalin, I came here wishing to ask you to be my wife.  Only a foolish shyness prevented me from doing so yesterday.  This morning, I know that it would be too late.  Pray forgive me for speaking of the matter at all.  I feel obliged to explain myself.  Perhaps I had better make the explanation complete by saying that I saw you go through the garden, and followed in the same direction, hoping for an opportunity of speaking with you alone.”