Constance was leaning on a parapet, her arms folded.

“I’m sorry you so understood me,” she said, though without the accent of penitence, for in truth she seemed quietly amused.  “All I meant was that you were admirably quick in seizing an opportunity of beginning your propaganda.”

“I don’t think you meant only that,” remarked Dyce, coolly, looking her in the eyes.

“Is it your habit to contradict so grossly?” asked Constance, with a cold air of surprise.

“I try to make my talk—­especially with women as honest as I can.  It seems mere justice to them, as well as to myself.  And please observe that I did not grossly contradict you.  I said that you seemed to me to have another thought in your mind beyond the one you admitted.—­Tell me, please; do you exact courtiership from men?  I imagined you would rather dislike it.”

“You are right; I do.”

“Then it’s clear that you mustn’t be annoyed when I speak in my natural way.  I see no reason in the world why one shouldn’t talk to a woman—­about things in general—­exactly as one does to a man.  What is called chivalry is simply disguised contempt.  If a man bows and honeys to a woman, he does so because he thinks she has such a poor understanding that this kind of thing will flatter and please her.  For my own part, I shall never try to please a woman by any other methods than those which would win the regard and friendship of a man.”

Constance wore a look of more serious attention.

“If you stick to that,” she said, with a frank air, “you will be a man worth knowing.”

“I’m very glad to hear you say so.  Now that we’ve cleared the air, we shall get on better together.  Let me tell you that, whatever else I may fall short in, I have the virtue of sincerity.  You know well enough that I am naturally ambitious, but my ambition has never made me unprincipled.  I aim at distinction, because I believe that nature has put it within my reach.  I don’t regard myself as an average man, because I can’t; it would be practising hypocrisy with myself.  There is—­if you like—­the possibility of self-deception.  Perhaps I am misled by egregious conceit.  Well, it is honest conceit, and, as it tends to my happiness, I don’t pray to be delivered from it.”

Constance smiled.

“This is very interesting, Mr. Lashmar.  But why do you honour me with such confidence?”

“Because I think you and I are capable of understanding each other, which is a rare thing between man and woman.  I want you as a supporter of my views, and, if I succeed in that, I hope you will become a supporter of my ambitions.”

“What are they, just now?”

“Your letter contained a suggestion; whether you intended it or not, I don’t know.  Why shouldn’t I be the man Lady Ogram is looking for—­the future Liberal member for Hollingford?”

His companion gazed at a far point of the landscape.