"If I were you, May, I shouldn't talk about Old English next time you see Lord Dymchurch. Men don't care to find themselves at school in a drawing-room." "I assure you, aunt, that is not my only subject of conversation," replied May, amused and dignified. "And I'm perfectly certain that it was just the thing for Lord Dymchurch. He has a serious mind, and I like him to know that mine is the same." "That's all right, of course. I dare say you know best what pleases him. And I think it very probable indeed, May, that he went to Pont Street just in the hope of meeting you." "Perhaps so." May smiled, and seemed to take the thing as very natural; whereupon Lady Ogram again looked puzzled. "Well, go to bed, May. I'm very glad Lord Dymchurch was there; very glad. Go to bed, and sleep as late as you like. I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself, and I'm very glad Lord Dymchurch was there--very." The voice had become so senile, so indistinct, that May could hardly catch what it said. She lightly kissed her aunt's cheek--a ceremony that passed between them only when decorum seemed to demand it--and left the room. On the following morning, Dyce Lashmar received a telegram, couched thus: "Please call at Bunting's Hotel at 3 this afternoon." In order to respond to this summons, he had to break an engagement; but he did it willingly. Around the hotel in Albemarle Street circled all his thoughts, and he desired nothing more than to direct his steps thither. Arriving with perfect punctuality, he was shown into Lady Ogram's drawing-room, and found Lady Ogram alone. Artificial complexion notwithstanding, the stern old visage wore to-day a look as of nature all but spent. At Lashmar's entrance, his hostess did not move; sunk together in her chair, head drooping forward, she viewed him from under her eyebrows: even to give her hand when he stood before her seemed almost too great an effort, and the shrivelled lips scarce made audible her bidding that he should be seated. "You are well, I hope?" said Dyce, feeling uncomfortable, but affecting to see nothing unusual in the face before him. Lady Ogram nodded, impatiently. There was a moment's silence; then, turning her gaze upon him, she said abruptly, in a harsh croak: "What are you waiting for?" Lashmar felt a cold touch along his spine. He thought the ghastly old woman had lost her senses, that she was either mad or delirious. Yet her gaze had nothing wild; on the contrary, it searched him with all the wonted keenness. "Waiting--? I'm afraid I don't understand--" "Why haven't you done what you know I wish?" pursued the untuneful voice, now better controlled. "I'm speaking of Constance Bride." Relieved on one side, Dyce fell into trouble on the other. "To tell you the truth, Lady Ogram," he answered, with his air of utmost candour, "I have found no encouragement to take the step of which you are thinking. I'm afraid I know only too well what the result would be." "You know nothing about it."