“Do you care for news of Miss Tomalin?” the latter continued.  “After spending two or three days with me, she grew restless, and took rooms for herself.  I am afraid, to tell you the truth, that she is a little disappointing; it is perhaps quite as well that a certain romantic affair which was confided to me came to nothing.  A week after she left my house, I received a very stiff (not to say impertinent) letter, in which the young lady informed me that she was about to marry a Mr. Yabsley of Northampton, a man (to quote her words) ’of the highest powers and with a brilliant future already assured to him.’  This seemed to me, I confess, a little sudden, but at least it had the merit of being amusing.  Perhaps I may venture to hope that you are already quite consoled?  Remember me, I beg. to Miss Bride.  Are you likely to be in this part of the world during the holidays?  If anywhere near, do come and see me, and we will talk about that striking philosophical theory of yours.”

Lashmar bit his lip.  All at once he saw Mrs. Toplady’s smile, and it troubled him.  None the less did he ponder her letter, re-reading it several times.  Presently he mused with uneasiness on the fact that Iris might even now be writing to Mrs. Toplady.  Would her interest in him—­she seemed indeed to be genuinely interested survive the announcement that, after all, he was not going to marry Constance Bride, but had declined upon an insignificant little widow with a few hundreds a year?  Was not this upshot of his adventures too beggarly?  Had Mrs. Toplady been within easy reach, he would have gone to see her; but she wrote from the north of Scotland.  He could only await the result of Iris’s letter.

To the news concerning May Tomalin, he gave scarcely a thought.  Mr. Yabsley, of Northampton!

Exceeding weariness sank him for a few hours in sleep; but before dawn he was tossing again on the waves of miserable doubt.  Why had he not waited a little before going to see Iris?  If only he had received this letter of Mrs. Toplady in time, it would have checked him—­or so he thought.  Was it the malice of fate which had ordained that, on his way to Eastbourne, he should not have troubled to look in at his lodgings?  How many such wretched accidents he could recall!  Was he, instead of being fortune’s favourite, simply a poor devil hunted by ill luck, doomed to lose every chance?  Why not he as well as another?  Such men abound.

He had not yet taken the irretrievable step.  Until he was actually married, a hope remained to him.  He might postpone the fatal day; his purse was not yet empty.  Why should he be too strict in the report of his election expenses to Constance?  Every pound in his pocket meant a prolongation of liberty, a new horizon of the possible—­

Two days later he was back again at Eastbourne.  He had taken a cheap little lodging, and yielded himself to sea-side indolence.  A week passed, then Iris heard from Mrs. Toplady.  She did not at once show Lashmar the letter; she awaited a moment when he was lulled by physical comfort into a facile and sanguine humour.