of Iris Woolstan. When Dyce Lashmar stepped into her drawing-room,
she had the air of one who has been impatiently expectant. Her eyes
widened in a smile of nervous pleasure; she sprang up, and offered
her hand before the visitor was near enough to take it.

"So kind of you to come! I was half afraid you might have gone out
of town not that it would have mattered. I did really want to see
you as soon as possible, but Monday would have done just as well."

She spoke rapidly in a high, but not shrill, voice, with a
drawing-in of the breath before and after her speech, and a nervous
little pant between the sentences, her bosom fluttering like that of
a frightened bird.

"As a matter of fact," cried Lashmar, with brusque cordiality,
dropping into a chair before his hostess was seated, "I _had_ gone
out of town. I got your letter at Alverholme, and came back again
sooner than I intended."

"Oh! Oh!" panted Mrs. Woolstan, on her highest note, "I shall never
forgive myself! Why _didn't_ you telegraph--or just do nothing at
all, and come when you were ready? Oh! When there wasn't the least
hurry."

"Then why did you write as if something alarming had happened?"
cried the other, laughing, as he crossed his legs, and laid his silk
hat aside.

"Oh, did I? I'm sure I _didn't_ mean to. There's nothing alarming at
all--at least--that is to say--well, it's something