"You interest me," pursued Constance. "I think you are rather a typical man of our time, and it isn't at all impossible that you may become, as you say, distinguished. But, clothed and in my right mind, I don't feel disposed to pay the needful price for the honour of helping you on. You mustn't lose heart; I have little doubt that some other woman will grasp at the opportunity you so kindly wish to reserve for me. But may I venture a word of counsel? Don't let it be a woman who holds the equality theory. I say this in the interest of your peace and happiness. There are plenty of women, still, who like to be despised, and some of them are very nice indeed. They are the only good wives; I feel sure of it. We others—women cursed with brains—are not meant for marriage. We grow in numbers, unfortunately. What will be the end of it, I don't know. Some day you will thank your stars that you did not marry a woman capable of understanding you."
Dyce stood up and took a few steps about the floor, his eyes fixed on the marble bust.
"When can I see you again?" he asked abruptly.
"I shall be going to London in a day or two; I don't think we will meet again—until your circumstances are better. Can you give me any idea of what the election expenses will be?"
"Not yet," Dyce answered, in an undertone. "You are going to London? Will you tell me what you mean to do?"
"To pursue my career."
"Your career?"
"That surprises you, of course. It never occurred to you that I also might have a career in view. Yet I have. Let us enter upon a friendly competition. Five years hence, which of us will be better known?"
"I see," remarked Dyce, his lip curling. "You will use your money to make yourself talked about?"
"Not primarily; but it is very likely that that will result from my work. It offends your sense of what is becoming in a woman?"