A maidservant entered with the tea-tray. Dyce lay back in his chair, gazing vacantly, until his hostess offered him a cup of tea. As he bent forward to take it, his eyes for a moment dwelt with unusual intentness on the face and figure of Iris Woolstan. Then, as he sipped, he again grew absent-minded. Iris, too, was absorbed in thought. "You were speaking of Lady Ogram," she resumed, gently. "Yes. A friend of mine down at Alverholme knows her very well, and thought I might like to meet her. I half think I should. She lives at Hollingford; a rich old woman, going in a good deal for social questions. A widow, no children. Who knows?" he added, raising his, eyebrows and looking straight at Iris. "She might interest herself in--in my view of things." "She might," replied the listener, as if overcoming a slight reluctance. "Of course it all depends on her own views." "To be sure, I know very little about her. It's the vaguest suggestion. But, you see, I'm at the moment, when any suggestion, however vague, has a possible value. One point is certain; I shan't take any more pupils. Without meaning it, you have decided this question for me; it's time I looked to other things." "I _felt_ that!" exclaimed Mrs. Woolstan, her eyes brightening. "That was what decided me; I see now that it was--though perhaps. I hardly understood myself at the time. No more pupils! It is time that your serious career began." Lashmar smiled, nodding in reflective approval. His eyes wandered, with an upward tendency; his lips twitched. "Opportunity, opportunity," he murmured. "Of course it will come. I'm not afraid." "Oh it will come!" chanted his companion. "Only make yourself known to people of influence, who can appreciate you." "That's it." Dyce nodded again. "I must move about. For the present, I have read and thought enough; now I have to make myself felt as a force." Mrs. Woolstan gazed at him, in a rapture of faith. His countenance wore its transforming light; he had passed into a dream of conquest. By constitution very temperate in the matter of physical indulgence, Lashmar found exciting stimulus even in a cup of tea. For the grosser drinks he had no palate; wine easily overcame him; tea and coffee were the chosen aids of his imagination. "Yes, I think I shall go down to Hollingford." "Who," asked Iris, "is the friend who promised to introduce you?" There was a scarcely perceptible pause before his reply. "A parson--once my father's curate," he added, vaguely. "A liberal-minded man, as so many parsons are nowadays." Iris was satisfied. She gave the project her full approval, and launched into forecast of possible issues. "But it's certain," she said presently, in a lower voice, "that after this I shall see very little of you. You won't have time to come here."