“Sit down,” were her first words.

Lashmar, convinced that Constance Bride had sought to avenge herself, tried to screw up his courage.  He looked very serious; he sat stiffly; he kept his eye upon Lady Ogram’s.

“Well, what have you to tell me?” she asked, with a deliberation more disconcerting than impatience would have been.

“Everything goes on pretty well—­”

“Does it?  I’m glad you think so.”

“What do you allude to, Lady Ogram?” Lashmar inquired with grave respectfulness.

“What do you?”

“I was speaking of things at Hollingford.”

“And I was thinking of things at Rivenoak.”

Lashmar’s brain worked feverishly.  What did she know?  If Constance had betrayed him, assuredly May also must have been put to the question, and with what result?  He was spared long conjecture.

“Let us understand each other,” said the autocrat, who seemed to be recovering strength as the need arose.  “I hear that you want to break off with Constance Bride.  She is no bride for you.  Is that the case?”

“I am sorry to say it is the truth, Lady Ogram.”

Having uttered these words, Dyce felt the heroic mood begin to stir in him.  He had no alternative now, and would prove himself equal to the great occasion.

“You want to marry someone else?”

“I’m sure you will recognise,” Lashmar replied, in his academic tone, “that I am doing my best to act honourably, and without giving any unnecessary pain.  Under certain circumstances, a man is not entirely master of himself—­”

There sounded the luncheon bell.  It rang a vague hope to Lashmar, whose voice dropped.

“Are you hungry?” asked the hostess, with impatience.

“Not particularly, thank you.”

“Then I think we had better get our little talk over and done with.  We shan’t keep the others waiting.”

Dyce accepted this as a good omen.  “Our little talk!” He had not dreamt of such urbanity.  Here was the result of courage and honesty.  Evidently his bearing had made a good impression upon the old despot.  He began to look cheerful.

“Nothing could please me better.”

“Go on, then,” said Lady Ogram, drily.  “You were saying—­”

“I wish to use complete frankness with you,” Dyce resumed.  “As I think you know, I always prefer the simple, natural way of looking at things.  So, for instance, in my relations with women I have always aimed at fair and candid behaviour; I have tried to treat women as they themselves, justly enough, wish to be treated, without affectation, without insincerity.  Constance knew my views, and she approved them.  When our friendship developed into an engagement of marriage, we both of us regarded the step in a purely reasonable light; we did not try to deceive ourselves, and, less still, to deceive each other.  But a man cannot always gauge his nature.  To use the common phrase, I did not think I should ever fall in love; yet that happened to me, suddenly, unmistakably.  What course had I to follow?  Obviously I must act on my own principles; I must be straightforward, simple, candid.  As soon as my mind was made up, I came to Constance.”