“Mrs. Toplady must have been in a hurry when she wrote this,” was her remark, as, with seeming carelessness, she produced the letter.  “Of course she has an enormous correspondence.  I shall hear again from her, no doubt, before long.”

One side only of the note-paper was covered.  In formal phrase, the writer said that she was glad to hear of her friend’s engagement, and wished her all happiness.  Not a word about their future meeting; not an allusion to Lashmar’s prospects.  If Iris had announced her coming marriage with some poor clerk, Mrs. Toplady could not have. written less effusively.

“There’s an end of her interest in me,” Dyce remarked, with a nervous shrug.

Iris protested, and did her best to put another aspect on the matter, but without success.  For twenty-four hours, Lashmar kept away from her; she, offended, tried to disregard his absence, but at length sped to make inquiries, fearful lest he should be driven to despair.  At the murky end of a wet evening, they paced the esplanade together.

“You don’t love me,” said Iris, on a sob.

“It is because I love you,” he replied, glooming, “that I can’t bear to think of you married to such a luckless fellow as I am.”

“Dearest!” she whispered.  “Am I ruining you?  Do you wish to be free again?  Tell me the truth; I think I can bear it.”

The next day saw them rambling in sunshine, Lashmar amorous and resigned, Iris flutteringly hopeful.  And with such alternations did the holiday go by.  When Leonard returned to school, their marriage was fixed for ten days later.

Shortly before leaving Eastbourne, Iris had written to Mr. Wrybolt.  Already they had corresponded on the subject of her marriage; this last letter, concerning a point of business which required immediate attention, remained without reply.  Puzzled by her trustee’s silence, Iris, soon after she reached home, went to see him at his City Office.  She learnt that Mr. Wrybolt was out of town, but would certainly return in a day or two.

Again she wrote.  Again she waited in vain for a reply.  On a dull afternoon near the end of September, as she sat thinking of Lashmar and resolutely seeing him in the glorified aspect dear to her heart and mind, the servant announced Mr. Barker.  This was the athletic young man in whose company she had spent some time at Gorleston before Lashmar’s coming.  His business lay in the City; he knew Mr. Wrybolt, and through him had made Mrs. Woolstan’s acquaintance.  The face with which he entered the drawing-room portended something more than a friendly chat.  Iris had at one time thought that this young man felt disposed to offer her marriage; was that his purpose now, and did it account for his odd look?

“I want to ask you,” Mr. Barker began, abruptly, “whether you know anything about Wrybolt?  Have you heard from him lately?”

Iris replied that she herself wished to hear of that gentleman, who did not answer her letters, and was said to be out of town.