"A fine old cynic!" answered Dyce. "I hope often to drink ale with him."
"Luckily, it doesn't compromise you. Martin belongs to no party, and gives no vote. I could tell you a good story about his reception of a canvasser—a lady, by Jove!—at the last election; but I'll keep it till we meet again, as you are in a hurry. You have put me in spirits, Mr. Lashmar; may it not be long before I next talk with you. Meanwhile, I dig the trenches!"
Ale and strong tobacco, to both of which he was unaccustomed, wrought confusingly upon Dyce's brain as he was borne through the night. He found himself murmuring the name of Constance, and forming a resolve to win her to intimacy on the morrow. Yes, he liked Constance after all. Then came a memory of Martin Blaydes's diatribe, and he laughed approvingly. But Constance was an exception, the best type of modern woman. After all, he liked her.
Again they two breakfasted together. Dyce gave a mirthful description of his evening, and gaily reported Mr. Blaydes's eloquence on the subject of woman.
"On the whole, I agree with him," said Constance. "And I know, of course, that you do."
"Indeed? You agree with him?"
"So does every sensible person. But the subject doesn't interest me. I hate talk about women. We've had enough of it: it has become a nuisance—a cant, like any other. A woman is a human being, not a separate species."
"Why, of course!" cried Lashmar. "Just what I am always saying."
"Say it no more," interrupted his companion. "There are plenty of other things to talk about."
Whereupon, she finished her cup of coffee, nodded a leave-taking, and went at a brisk pace from the room. Dyce continued his meal, meditative, a trifle wounded in self-esteem.