“We shall have several letters to write to-morrow morning,” she said presently.

“Political letters?” asked Constance.

“Yes.  By the bye, do you know anything about Lord Dymchurch?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Then find out about him as soon as possible.—­What are Mr. Lashmar’s means?”

“I really can’t tell you,” answered Constance, slightly confused by the unexpected question.  “I believe his father is very well-to-do; I have heard him spoken of as a man of private fortune.”

“Then our friend is independent—­or at all events not pinched.  So much the better.”

Again Lady Ogram fell into musing; the countless wrinkles about her eyes, eloquent as wrinkles always are, indicated that her thoughts had no disagreeable tenor.

“Mr. Lashmar impresses you favourably?” Constance at length ventured to ask.

Lady Ogram delayed her answer for a moment, then, speaking thickly in her tired voice, .aid with slow emphasis

“I’m glad to know him.  Beyond a doubt, he is the coming man.”

CHAPTER VII

On his return, Lashmar found a letter from Mrs. Woolstan awaiting him at Upper Woburn Place.  The lady wrote in rather an agitated strain; she had to report that Leonard was already packed off to school, the imperious Wrybolt having insisted on sending him away as soon as he had recovered from his cold, on a pretence that the boy ought not to lose any part of the new term.  “It is really very hard on me, don’t you think?  I know nothing whatever about the school, which is a long way off, right away in Devonshire:  And it does so grieve me that you couldn’t say good-bye to the poor little fellow.  He says he shall write to you, and it would be so kind, dear Mr. Lashmar, if you could find a moment to answer him.  I know how grateful dear Len would be.  But we will talk about these things, for of course you will come and lunch all the same, at least I hope you will.  Shall we say Thursday?  I am not at all pleased with Mr. Wrybolt’s behaviour.  Indeed it seems to me very high-handed, very!  And I told him very plainly what I thought.  You can have no idea how galling is a woman’s position left at the mercy of a trustee—­a stranger too.  And now that I am quite alone in the house—­but I know you don’t like people who complain.  It’s all very well for you, you know.  Ah! if I had your independence!  What I would make of my life!—­Till Thursday, then, and don’t, please, be bored with my letters.”

This Mrs. Woolstan wrote and posted before luncheon.  At three o’clock in the afternoon, just when she was preparing to go out, the servant made known to her that Mr. Wrybolt had called.  What, Mr. Wrybolt again!  With delay which was meant to be impressive, she descended to the drawing-room, and coldly greeted the gentleman of the red neck and heavy eyelids.  Mr. Wrybolt’s age was about five