rving restless ambition. This combination of qualities which all but
every woman worship. Mrs. Toplady herself, she of the ironic smile and
cynic intelligence, felt it a magnetic property in Dyce Lashmar's
otherwise not very impressive person. On that account did she watch his
pranks with so indulgent an eye, and give herself trouble to enlarge
the scope of his entertaining activity. She knew, however, that the man
was not cast in heroic mould; that he was capable of scruples, inclined
to indolence; that he did not, after all, sufficiently believe in
himself to go very far in the subjugation of others. Therefore she had
never entertained the thought of seriously devoting herself to his
cause, but was content to play with it until something more piquant
should claim her attention.

Mrs. Toplady had always wished for the coming of the very hero, the man
without fear, without qualm, who should put our finicking civilisation
under his feet. Her god was a compound of the blood-reeking conqueror
and the diplomatist supreme in guile. For such a man she would have
poured out her safe-invested treasure, enough rewarded with a nod of
half-disdainful recognition. It vexed her to think that she might pass
away before the appearance of that new actor on the human stage; his
entrance was all but due, she felt assured. Ah! the world would be much
more amusing presently, and she meanwhile was growing old.

Her drawing-rooms on the evening of June 13th were crowded with
representatives of Society. Lashmar arrived about ten o'clock, and his
hostess had soon introduced him to two or three persons of political
note, with each of whom he exchanged phrases of such appalling banality
that he had much ado not to laugh in his interlocutor's face. The
swelling current moved him along; he could only watch countenances and
listen to dialogues as foolish as those in which he had taken part; a
dizzying babblement filled the air, heavy with confusion of perfumes.
Presently, having circled his way back towards the stair-head, he
caught sight of Lord Dymchurch, who had newly entered; their eyes met,
but Dymchurch, who wore a very absent look, gave no sign of
recognition. Dyce pressed forward.

"I hoped I might meet you here," he said.

The other started, smiled nervously, and spoke in a confused way.

"I thought it likely. Of course you know a great many of these people?"

"Oh, a few. I had rather meet them anywhere than in such a crowd,
though."