"Well, I will do so. It's this. I am in love with May Tomalin, and I want to marry her."
Their eyes met, Dyce was smiling, an uneasy, abashed smile. Constance wore an expression of cold curiosity, and spoke in a corresponding voice.
"Have you asked her to do so?"
"Not yet," Lashmar replied.
For a moment, Constance gazed at him; then she said, quietly:
"I don't believe you."
"That's rather emphatic," cried Dyce, affecting a laugh.
"It conveys my meaning. I don't believe you, for several reasons. One of them is—" She broke off, and rose from her chair. "Please wait; I will be back in a moment."
Lashmar sat looking about the room. He began to be aware that he had not breakfasted,—a physical uneasiness added to the various forms of disquiet from which his mind was suffering. When Constance re-entered, he saw she had a book in her hand, a book which by its outward appearance he at once recognised.
"Do you know this?" she asked, holding the volume to him. "I received it yesterday, and have already gone through most of it. I find it very interesting."