"Oh, did I? I'm sure I _didn't_ mean to. There's nothing alarming at all--at least--that is to say--well, it's something troublesome and disagreeable and very unexpected, and I'm rather afraid you won't like it. But we've plenty of time to talk about it. I'm at home to nobody else--It was really unkind of you to come back in a hurry! Besides, it's against your principles. You wouldn't have done that if I had been a man." "A man would have said just what he meant," replied Dyce, smiling at her with kindly superiority. "He wouldn't have put me in doubt." "No, no! But did I really write like that? I thought it was just a plain little business-like note--indeed I did! It will be a lesson to me--indeed it will! And how did you find your people? All well, I hope?" "Well in one way; in another--but I'll tell you about that presently." Dyce had known Mrs. Woolstan for about a couple of years; it was in the second twelvemonth of their acquaintance that he matured his method with regard to women, and since then he had not only practised it freely, but had often discussed it, with her. Iris gave the method her entire approval, and hailed it as the beginning of a new era for her sex. She imagined that her own demeanour was no less direct and unconstrained than that of the philosopher himself; in reality, the difference was considerable. Though several years older than Dyce--her age being thirty-four--she showed nothing of the seniority in her manner towards him, which, for all its impulsiveness, had a noticeable deference, at moments something of subdued homage. "You don't mean to say you have bad news?" she exclaimed, palpitating. "You, too?" "Why, then _you_ have something of the same kind to tell me?" said Dyce, gazing at her anxiously. "Tell me your's first--please do!" "No. It's nothing very important. So say what you've got to say, and be quick about it--come!" Mrs. Woolstan's bosom rose and fell rapidly as she collected her thoughts. Unconventional as were the terms in which Lashmar addressed her, they carried no suggestion of an intimacy which passed the limits of friendship. When his eyes turned to her, their look was unemotional, purely speculative, and in general spoke without looking at her at all. "It's something about Mr. Wrybolt," Iris began, with a face of distress. "You know he is my trustee--I told you, didn't I? I see him very seldom, and we don't take much interest in each other; he's nothing but a man of business, the kind I detest; he can't talk of anything but money and shares and wretched things of that sort. But you know him you understand." The name of Wrybolt set before Dyce's mind a middle-aged man, red-necked, heavy of eyelid, with a rather punctilious hearing and authoritative mode of speech. They had met only once, here at Mrs. Woolstan's house.