“For a day or two.  My secretaryship goes on, of course.  I have a good deal of correspondence to see to.”

On his way hither, Lashmar had imagined quite a different meeting; he anticipated an emotional scene, beginning with forced calm on Constance’s side, leading OR to reproaches, explanations, and masculine triumph.  But Constance was strangely self-possessed, and her mind seemed to be not at all occupied with agitating subjects.  Lashmar was puzzled; he felt it wise to imitate her example, to behave as quietly and naturally as possible, taking for granted that she viewed the situation even as he did.

He turned his eyes to the marble bust on its pedestal behind Constance.  The note of scorn in its fixed smile caught his attention.

“So that is to stand in the Hospital,” he murmured.

“Yes, I believe so,” replied Constance, absently, with a glance towards the white face.

“What strange stories it will give rise to, in days to come!  She will become a legendary figure.  I can hardly believe that I saw and talked with her only a few days ago.  Have you the same feeling at all?  Doesn’t she seem to you more like someone you have read of, than a person you really knew?”

“I understand what you mean,” said Constance, smiling thoughtfully.  “It’s certain one will never again know anyone like her.”

“Are all the provisions of her will practicable?”

“Perfectly, I think.  She took great trouble to make them so.  By the bye, from whom did you get your information?”

It was asked in a disinterested voice, the speaker’s look resting for a moment on Lashmar with unembarrassed directness.

“Mrs. Toplady told me about the will.”

Dyce paused for a moment, then continued, with an obvious effort indeed, but in an even voice.

“She came to see me, after the funeral.  Mrs. Toplady has a persevering curiosity; she wanted to know what had happened, and, I have no doubt, had recourse to me after finding that you were not disposed to talk as freely as she wished.  I was able to enlighten her on one point.”

“May I ask what point?”

“She began by telling me that Miss Tomalin was at her house.  She had heard Miss Tomalin’s story, with the result that she supposed me in honour bound to marry that young lady.  I explained that this was by no means the case.”

“How did you explain it?” asked Constance, still in her disinterested tone.

“By telling the simple truth, that Miss Tomalin had herself cancelled the engagement existing between us.”

“I see.”

Constance leaned back in her chair.  She looked like one who is sitting alone, occupied with tranquil reflection.  Dyce allowed a moment to elapse before he again spoke; he was smiling to himself.

“How strange it all is!” he at length resumed, as though starting from a reverie.  “This past fortnight seems already as dim and vague to me as the recollection of something that happened long years ago.  I never believed myself capable of such follies.  Tell me frankly.”  He leaned towards Constance, gazing at her in an amused, confidential way.  “Could you have imagined that I should ever lose my head like that, and run off into such vagaries?”