Never was woman more genuinely surprised.  That this prosperous financier, who had already made one advantageous marriage and might probably, if he wished, wed a second fortune—­that such a man as Mr. Wrybolt would think of her for his wife, was a thing which had never entered her imagination.  She was fluttered, and flattered, and pleased, but not for a moment did she think of accepting him.  Her eyes fell, in demurest sadness.  Never, never could she marry again; the past was always with her, and the future imposed upon her the most solemn of duties.  She lived for the memory of her husband and for the prospects of her child.  Naturally, Mr. Wrybolt turned at first an incredulous ear; he urged his suit, simply and directly, with persuasion derived partly from the realm of sentiment, partly from Lombard Street—­the latter sounding the more specious.  But Mrs. Woolstan betrayed no sign of wavering; in truth, the more Wrybolt pleaded, the firmer she grew in her resolve of refusal.  When decency compelled the man to withdraw, he was very warm of countenance and lobster-hued at the back of his neck; an impartial observer would have thought him secretly in a towering rage.  His leave-taking was laconic, though he did his best to smile.

Of course Mrs. Woolstan soon sat down to write him a letter, in which she begged him to believe how grateful she was, how much honoured by his proposal and how deeply distressed at not being able to accept it.  Surely this would make no difference between them?  Of course they would be friends as ever—­nay, more than ever?  She could never forget his nobly generous impulse.  But let him reflect on her broken life, her immutable sadness; he would understand how much she would have wronged such a man as he in taking advantage of that moment’s heroic weakness.  To this effusive epistle came speedily a brief response.  Of course all was as before, wrote Wrybolt.  He was wholly at her service, and would do anything she wished in the matter of her money.  By all means let her send him full particulars in writing, and he would lose no time; the yield of her capital might probably be doubled.

Mrs. Woolstan, after all, went no further in that business.  She had her own reasons for continuing to think constantly of it, but for the present felt she would prefer not to trouble Mr. Wrybolt.  Impatiently she looked forward to Thursday and the coming of Dyce Lashmar.

He came, with a countenance of dubious import.  He was neither merry nor sad, neither talkative nor taciturn.  At one moment his face seemed to radiate hope; the next, he appeared to fall under a shadow of solicitude.  When his hostess talked of her son, he plainly gave no heed; his replies were mechanical.  When she asked him for an account of what he had been doing down in the country, he answered with broken scraps of uninteresting information.  Thus passed the quarter of an hour before luncheon, and part of luncheon itself; but at length Dyce recovered his more natural demeanour.  Choosing a moment when the parlour-maid was out of the room, he leaned towards Mrs. Woolstan, and said, with the smile of easy comradeship: