"Oh! Indeed! I wasn't aware--"

Mrs. Lashmar thought better of her inclination to be trenchantly
rude, and smoothed off into commonplaces. Presently the vicar
entered, and found his wife conversing with the visitor more amiably
than he had expected.

"You have seen Miss Bride already," said Mrs. Lashmar. "I am trying
to persuade her to stay over-night with us. Is it really
impossible?"

Constance civilly but decidedly declined. Addressing herself to the
vicar, she spoke with more ease and friendliness than hitherto;
nevertheless, it was obvious that she counted the minutes dictated
by decency for the prolongation of her stay. Once or twice her look
wandered to a certain part of the wall where hung a framed
photograph--a portrait of Dyce Lashmar at the age of one and
twenty; she regarded it for an instant with cold fixity, as though
it interested her not at all. Just as she was on the point of
rising, there came a sound of wheels on the vicarage drive.

"Who's that, I wonder?" said Mrs. Lashmar. "Why--surely it isn't--?"

A voice from without had reached her ears; surprise and annoyance
darkened her countenance.

"It's certainly Dyce," said the vicar, who for his part, recognized
the voice with pleasure.