“This is the first I have heard of your aunt,” remarked Dyce.

“Is it?  Didn’t your father let you know of the shocking revelation I made to him the other day?”

“He told me nothing at all.”

Constance reflected.

“Probably he thought it too painful.  Mrs. Shufflebotham keeps a little shop, and sells cakes and sweetmeats.  Does it distress you?”

Distress was not the applicable word, for Lashmar had no deep interest in Constance or her belongings.  But the revelation surprised and rather disgusted him.  He wondered why Constance made it thus needlessly, and, as it was, defiantly.

“I should be very stupid and conventional,” he answered, with his indulgent smile, “if such things affected me one way or another.”

“I don’t mind telling you that, when I first knew about it, I wished Mrs. Shufflebotham and her shop at the bottom of the sea.”  Constance laughed.  “But I soon got over that.  I happen to have been born with a good deal of pride, and, when I began to think about myself—­it was only a few years ago—­I found it necessary to ask what I really had to be proud of.  There was nothing very obvious—­no wealth, no rank, no achievements.  It grew clear to me that I had better be proud of being proud, and a good way to that end was to let people know I cared nothing for their opinion.  One gets a good deal of satisfaction out of it.”

Lashmar listened in a puzzled and uneasy frame of mind.  Theoretically, it should have pleased him to hear a woman talking thus, but the actual effect upon him was repellent.  He did not care to look at the speaker, and it became difficult for him to keep up the conversation.  Luckily, at this moment the first luncheon bell sounded.

“Lady Ogram has returned,” said Constance.  They had wandered to the rear of the house, and thus did not know of the arrival of the carriage.  “Shall we go in?”

She led the way into a small drawing-room, and excused herself for leaving him alone.  A moment later, there appeared a page, who conducted him to a chamber where he could prepare for luncheon.  When he came out again into the hall, he found Lady Ogram standing there, reading a letter.  Seen from behind, her masses of elaborately dressed hair gave her the appearance of a young woman; when she turned at the sound of a footfall, the presentation of her parchment visage came as a shock.  She looked keenly at the visitor, and seemed to renew her approval of him.

“How do you do?” was the curt greeting, as she gave her hand.  “Have you been over the mill?”

“Greatly to my satisfaction, Lady Ogram.”

“I’m glad to hear it.  We’ll talk about that presently.  I’m expecting a gentleman to lunch whom you’ll like to meet—­Mr. Breakspeare, the editor of our Liberal paper.  Ah, here he comes.”

A servant had just opened the hall door, and there entered a slight man in a long, heavy overcoat.