“No, I wasn’t aware of that,” Constance replied, in a voice of studious civility.  “Then how do you propose—?”

Their eyes encountered.  Constance did not for an instant lose her self-command; Lashmar’s efforts to be calm only made his embarrassment more obvious.

“I had a small allowance from my father, till lately,” he said.  “But that has come to an end.  It never occurred to me that you misunderstood my position.  Surely I have more than once hinted to you how poor I was?  I had no intention of misleading you.  Lady Ogram certainly knew “She knew you were not wealthy, but she thought you had a competence.  I told her so, when she questioned me.  It was a mistake, I see, but a very natural one.”

“Does it matter, now?” asked Dyce, his lips again curling amiably.

“I should suppose it mattered much.  How shall you live?”

“Let us understand each other.  Do you withdraw your consent to Lady Ogram’s last wish?”

“That wish, as you see, was founded on a misunderstanding.”

“But,” exclaimed Lashmar, “you are not speaking seriously?”

“Quite.  Lady Ogram certainly never intended the money she had left in trust to me to be used for your private needs.  Reflect a moment, and you will see how impossible it would be for me to apply the money in such a way.”

“Reflection,” said Dyce, with unnatural quietness, “would only increase my astonishment at your ingenuity.  It would have been much simpler and better to say at once that you had changed your mind.  Can you for a moment expect me to believe that this argument really justifies you in breaking your promise?”

“I assure you,” replied Constance, also in a soft undertone, “it is much sounder reasoning than that by which you excuse your philosophical plagiarism.”

Lashmar’s eyes wandered.  They fell upon the marble bust; its disdainful smile seemed to him more pronounced than ever.

“Then,” he cried, on an impulse of desperation, “you really mean to take Lady Ogram’s money, and to disregard the very condition on which she left it to you?”

“You forget that her will was made before she had heard your name.”

He sat in silence, a gloomy resentment lowering on his features.  After a glance at him, Constance began to speak in a calm, reasonable voice.

“It is my turn to confess.  I, too, seem to myself to have been living in a sort of dream, and my awaking is no less decisive than yours.  At your instigation, I behaved dishonestly; I am very much ashamed of the recollection.  Happily, I see my way to atone for the follies, and worse, that I committed.  I can carry out Lady Ogram’s wishes—­the wishes she formed while still in her sound mind—­and to that I shall devote my life.”

“Do you intend, then, to apply none of this money to your personal use?  Do you mean to earn your own living still?”

“That would defeat Lady Ogram’s purpose,” was the calm answer.  “I shall live where and how it seems good to me, guided always by the intention which I know was in her mind.”