Dymchurch would have liked to refuse, but hesitation undid him. Face to face with Mrs. Toplady and May, he drove to the station, and, as was inevitable, performed the rest of the journey in their company. The afternoon had tired him; alone, he would have closed his eyes, and tried to shut out the kaleidoscopic sensation which resulted from theatrical costumes, brilliant illustrations of the feminine mode, blue sky and sunny glades; but May Tomalin was as fresh as if new-risen, and still talked, talked. Enthusiastic in admiration of Lady Honeybourne, she heard with much interest that Dymchurch's acquaintance with the Viscount went back to Harrow days.
"That's what I envy you," she exclaimed, "your public school and University education! They make us feel our inferiority, and it isn't fair."
Admission of inferiority was so unexpected a thing on Miss Tomalin's lips, that her interlocutor glanced at her. Mrs. Toplady, in her corner of the railway carriage, seemed to be smiling over a newspaper article.
"The feeling must be very transitory," said Dymchurch, with humorous arch of brows.
"Oh, it doesn't trouble me very often. I know I should have done just as much as men do, if I had had the chance."
"Considerably more, no doubt, than either Honeybourne or I."
"You have never really put out your strength, I'm afraid, Lord Dymchurch," said May, regarding him with her candid smile. "Never in anything—have you?"
"No," he responded, in a like tone. "A trifler—always a trifler!"
"But if you know it—"
Something in his look made her pause. She looked out of the window, before adding: