Lady Ogram, sitting more upright against the back of her chair than before her attack of breathlessness, had gazed unwaveringly at the young man throughout his speeches.  A grim smile crept over her visage; her lips were pressed together, and her eyes twinkled with subdued satisfaction.  She now spoke abruptly.

“Do you remain at Hollingford to-night, Mr. Lashmar?”

“Yes, Lady Ogram.”

“Very well.  Come here to-morrow morning at eleven, go over the mill, and then lunch with us.  My manager shall be ready for you.”

“Thank you, very much.”

“Miss Bride, give Mr. Lashmar your Report.  He might like to look over it.”

Mr. and Mrs. Gallantry were rising to take leave, and the hostess did not seek to detain them; she stood up, with some difficulty, exhibiting a figure unexpectedly tall.

“We’ll talk over your idea,” she said, as she offered her hand to the lady.  “There’s something in it, but you mustn’t worry me about it, you know.  I cut up rough when I’m worried.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a bit!” exclaimed Mrs. Gallantry, gaily.

“But I do,” was Lady Ogram’s rejoinder, which again made her laugh, with the result that she had to sink back into her chair, waving an impatient adieu as Mr. Gallantry’s long, loose figure bowed before her.

Constance Bride had left the room for a moment; she returned with a thin pamphlet in her hand, which, after taking leave of Mr. and Mrs. Gallantry, she silently offered to Lashmar.

“Ah, this is the Report,” said Dyce.  “Many thanks.”

He stood rustling the leaves with an air of much interest.  On turning towards his hostess, about to utter some complimentary remark, he saw that Lady Ogram was sitting with her head bent forward and her eyes closed; but for the position of her hands, each grasping an arm of the chair, one would have imagined that she had fallen asleep.  Dyce glanced at Constance, who had resumed her seat, and was watching the old lady.  A minute passed in complete silence, then Lady Ogram gave a start, recovered herself, and fixed her look upon the visitor.

“How old are you?” she asked, in a voice which had become less distinct, as if through fatigue.

“Seven and twenty, Lady Ogram.”

“And your father is a clergyman?”

“My father is vicar of Alverholme, in Northamptonshire.”

She added a few short, sharp questions, concerning his family and his education, which Dyce answered succinctly.

“Would you like to see something of Rivenoak?  If so, Miss Bride will show you about.”

“With pleasure,” replied the young man.

“Very well.  You lunch with us to-morrow.  Be at the mill at eleven o’clock.”

She held out her skeleton hand, and Dyce took it respectfully.  Then Constance and he withdrew.

“This, as you see, is the library,” said his companion, when they had passed into the adjoining room.  “The books were mostly collected by Sir Spencer Ogram, father of the late baronet; he bought Rivenoak, and laid out the grounds.  That is his portrait—­the painter has been forgotten.”