“How do you do, Miss Connie!  Delighted to find you here—­Mother, glad to see you.”  Re touched Mrs. Lashmar’s forehead with his lips.  “Well, father?  Uncommonly pleasant to be at the vicarage again!”

Miss Bride had stood up, and was now advancing towards the hostess.

“You must go?” said Mrs. Lashmar, with her most agreeable smile.

“What, going?” exclaimed Dyce.  “Why?  Are you staying in the village?”

“No.  I must catch a train.”

“What train?”

“’The six forty-five.”

“Why, then you have plenty of time!  Mother, bid Miss Connie be seated; I haven’t had a moment’s talk with her; it’s absurd.  Six forty-five?  You needn’t leave here for twenty minutes.  What a lucky thing that I came in just now.”

For certain ticks of the clock it was a doubtful matter whether Miss Bride would depart or remain.  Glancing involuntarily at Mrs. Lashmar, she saw the gloom of resentment and hostility hover upon that lady’s countenance, and this proved decisive.

“I’ll have some tea, please,” cried the young man, cheerfully, as Constance with some abruptness resumed her seat.  “How is your father, Miss Connie?  Well?  That’s right.  And Mrs. Bride?”

“My mother is dead,” replied the girl, quite simply, looking away.

A soft murmur of pain escaped Dyce’s lips; he leaned forward, uttered gently a “Pray forgive me!” and was silent.  The vicar interposed with a harmless remark about the flight of years.

CHAPTER II

In the moments when Dyce Lashmar was neither aware of being observed nor consciously occupied with the pressing problems of his own existence, his face expressed a natural amiability, inclining to pensiveness.  The features were in no way remarkable; they missed the vigour of his father’s type without attaining the regularity which had given his mother a claim to good looks.  Such a visage falls to the lot of numberless men born to keep themselves alive and to propagate their insignificance.  But Dyce was not insignificant.  As soon as his countenance lighted with animation, it revealed a character rich in various possibility, a vital force which, by its bright indefiniteness, made some appeal to the imagination.  Often he had the air of a lyric enthusiast; often, that of a profound thinker; not seldom there came into his eyes a glint of stern energy which seemed a challenge to the world.  Therewithal, nothing perceptibly histrionic; look or speak as he might, the young man exhaled an atmosphere of sincerity, and persuaded others because he seemed so thoroughly to have convinced himself.

He did not give the impression of high breeding.  His Oxford voice, his easy self-possession, satisfied the social standard, but left a defect to the finer sense.  Dyce had not the self-oblivion of entire courtesy; it seemed probable that he would often err in tact; a certain awkwardness marred his personal bearing, which aimed at the modern ideal of flowing unconstraint.