They returned to the door, and Dyce again took the offered hand.
"I shall be here at eight on Thursday," he said. "Unless it rains. In that case, on the first fine morning."
"I don't promise to meet you."
"I will come without a promise."
"As you like," said May, slowly closing the door upon him. "But don't prepare for yourself another surprise."
She regained the house, having met no one but a gardener. Within, she encountered no one at all. Safe in her room, she reflected on the morning's adventure, and told herself that it had been, in a double sense, decidedly dangerous. Were Constance Bride or Lady Ogram to know of this clandestine rendezvous, what a storm would break! On that account alone she would have been glad of what she had done. But she was glad, also, of Lashmar's significant behaviour and language. He perceived, undoubtedly, that the anonymous letter came from her, and, be the upshot what it might, their romantic intimacy gave life a new zest. May flattered herself that she knew the tremours of amorous emotion. "If I liked, I could be really, really in love!" This was delightful experience; this was living! Dangerous, yes; for how did she mean to comport herself in the all but certain event of her receiving an offer of marriage from Lord Dymchurch? Mrs. Toplady was right; Lady Ogram had resolved upon this marriage, and would it be safe to thwart that strong-willed old woman? Moreover, the thought was very tempting. A peeress! Could she reasonably look for such another chance, if this were lost? Was she prepared to sacrifice it for the sake of Dyce Lashmar, and the emotional joys he represented?
She thought of novels and poems. Browning was much in her mind. She saw herself as the heroine of psychological drama. How interesting! How thrilling! During her life at Northampton, she had dreamed of such things, with no expectation of their ever befalling her. Truly, she was fortune's favourite. Destiny had raised her to the sphere where her powers and sensibilities would have full play.
So it was with radiant face that she appeared at the breakfast table. Constance and she shook hands as usual; with everyday words. It seemed to her that she saw disquiet in the secretary's countenance—after all, what was Miss Bride but a salaried secretary? Lashmar's betrothed might well suffer uneasiness, under the circumstances; she, it was obvious, did not regard the engagement as a mere pretence. No, no; Constance Bride was ambitious, and thought it a great thing to marry a man with a parliamentary career before him. She was of a domineering, jealous nature, and it would exasperate her to feel that Lashmar merely used her for his temporary purposes. Noble self-sacrifice, indeed! Lashmar himself did not believe that. Best of all things, at this moment, May would have liked to make known her power over Lashmar, and to say, "Of course, dear Miss Bride, he is nothing whatever to me. In my position, you understand—"
There had been a few moments' silence, when Constance asked:
"Do you ever hear of Mr. Yabsley?"