The vicar just gave a glance of surprise, but said nothing.  Every day made him an older man in look and bearing.  His head was turning white.  He had begun to mutter to himself as he walked about the parish.  Not a man in England who worried more about his own affairs and those of the world.

In an obscure lodging, Dyce awaited the day of destiny.  One evening he went to dine at West Hampstead; though he was rather late, Iris had not yet come home, and she had left no message to explain her absence.  He waited a quarter of an hour.  When at length his betrothed came hurrying into the room, she wore so strange a countenance that Dyce could not but ask what had happened.  Nothing, nothing—­she declared.  It was only that she had been obliged to hurry so, and was out of breath, and—­and—.  Whereupon she tottered to a chair, death-pale, all but fainting.

“What the devil is the matter with you?” cried Lashmar, whose over-strong nerves could not endure this kind of thing.

His violence had an excellent effect.  Iris recovered herself, and came towards him with hands extended.

“It’s nothing at all, dearest.  I couldn’t bear to keep you waiting, and fretted myself into a fever when I saw what time it was.  Don’t be angry with me, will you?”

Dyce was satisfied.  It seemed to him a very natural explanation; a caress put him into his gracious mood.

“After all, you know,” he said, “you’re a very womanly woman.  I think we shall have to give up pretending that you’re not.”

“But I’ve given it up long since!” Iris exclaimed, with large eyes.  “Didn’t you know that?”

“I’m not sure—­” he laughed—­“that I’m not glad of it.”

And they passed a much more tranquil evening than usual.  Iris seemed tired; she sat with her head on Dyce’s shoulder, thrilling when his lips touched her hair.  He had assured her that her hair was beautiful—­that he had always admired its hue of the autumn elm-leaf.  Her face, too, he was beginning to find pretty, and seldom did he trouble to reflect that she was seven years older than he.

Already he regarded this house as his own.  His books had been transferred hither, and many of his other possessions.  Very carefully had Iris put out of sight or got rid of, everything which could remind him of her former marriage.  Certain things (portraits and the like) which must be preserved for Leonard’s sake were locked away in the boy’s room.  Of course Lashmar had given her no presents; she, on the other hand, had been very busy in furnishing a study which should please him, buying the pictures and ornaments he liked, and many expensive books of which he said that he had need.  Into this room Dyce was not allowed to peep; it waited as a surprise for him on the return from the honeymoon.  Drawing-room and dining-room he trod as master, and often felt that, after all, a man could be very comfortable here for a year or two.  A box of good cigars invited him after dinner.  A womanly woman, the little mistress of the house; and, all things considered, he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t glad of it.