circumstances of their former parting. He was then a boy, and who
shall account for a boy's momentary impulses? Constance was a
practical sort of person, and in all likelihood thought no more of
that foolish incident than he did.

"Why are you so eccentric in your movements, Dyce?" said Mrs.
Lashmar, irritably, when he entered the drawing-room again. "You
write one day that you're coming in a week or two, and on the next
here you are. How could you know that it was convenient to us to
have you just now?"

"The Woolstan boy has a cold," Dyce replied, "and I found myself
free for a few days. I'm sorry to put you out."

"Not at all. I say that it _might_ have done."

Dyce's bearing to his mother was decently respectful, but in no way
affectionate. The knowledge that she counted for little or nothing
with him was an annoyance, rather than a distress, to Mrs. Lashmar.
With tenderness she could dispense, but the loss of authority
wounded her.

Dinner was a rather silent meal. The vicar seemed to be worrying
about something even more than usual. When they had risen from
table, Mrs. Lashmar made the remark which was always forthcoming on
these occasions.

"So you are still doing nothing, Dyce?"

"I assure you, I'm very busy," answered the young man, as one