“That’s it.”  Dyce nodded again.  “I must move about.  For the present, I have read and thought enough; now I have to make myself felt as a force.”

Mrs. Woolstan gazed at him, in a rapture of faith.  His countenance wore its transforming light; he had passed into a dream of conquest.  By constitution very temperate in the matter of physical indulgence, Lashmar found exciting stimulus even in a cup of tea.  For the grosser drinks he had no palate; wine easily overcame him; tea and coffee were the chosen aids of his imagination.

“Yes, I think I shall go down to Hollingford.”

“Who,” asked Iris, “is the friend who promised to introduce you?”

There was a scarcely perceptible pause before his reply.

“A parson—­once my father’s curate,” he added, vaguely.  “A liberal-minded man, as so many parsons are nowadays.”

Iris was satisfied.  She gave the project her full approval, and launched into forecast of possible issues.

“But. it’s certain,” she said presently, in a lower voice, “that after this I shall see very little of you.  You won’t have time to come here.”

“If you think you are going to get quite rid of me so easily,” answered Dyce, laughing—­his laugh seldom sounded altogether natural—­“you’re much mistaken.  But come now, let us talk about Len.  Where are you going to send him?  Has Wrybolt chosen a school?”

During the conversation that followed, Dyce was but half attentive.  Once and again his eyes fell upon Mrs. Woolstan with peculiar observancy.  Not for the first time, he was asking himself what might be the actual nature and extent of her pecuniary resources, for he had never been definitely informed on that subject.  He did not face the question crudely, but like a civilised man and a philosopher; there were reasons why it should interest him just now.  He mused, too, on the question of Mrs. Woolstan’s age, regarding which he could arrive at but a vague conclusion; sometimes he had taken her for hardly more than thirty, sometimes he suspected her of all but ten years more.  But, after all, what were these things to him?  The future beckoned, and he persuaded himself that its promise was such as is set only before fortune’s favourites.

Before leaving, he promised to come and lunch in a day or two, for the purpose of saying good-bye to Leonard.  Yet what, in truth, did he care about the boy?  Leonard was a rather precocious child, inclined to work his brain more than was good for a body often ailing.  Now and then Dyce had been surprised into a feeling of kindly interest, when Len showed himself peculiarly bright, but on the whole he was tired of his tutorial duties, and not for a moment would regret the parting.

“I’m sorry,” he said, in a moved voice.  “I hoped to make a man of him, after my own idea.  Well, well, we shall often see each other again, and who knows whether I mayn’t be of use to him some day.”