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.

Later in the morning, he saw Constance wheeling forth her bicycle. He
ran, and gained her side before she had mounted.

"As you are going out, why shouldn't we have a walk together? Give up
your ride this morning."

"I'm very sorry I can't," Constance answered, pleasantly. "The exercise
is necessary for me."

"But just this once--"

"Impossible! The morning is too fine and the roads too good."

She sprang into the saddle, and was off--much to Dyce's mortification.
He had not dreamt that she could refuse his request. And he had meant
to talk with such generous confidence, such true comradeship; it was
even his intention to tell Constance that he looked more for her
sympathy and aid than for that of anyone else. Surely this would have
been very gratifying to her;