you care for news of Miss Tomalin?" the latter continued. "After
spending two or three days with me, she grew restless, and took rooms
for herself. I am afraid, to tell you the truth, that she is a little
disappointing; it is perhaps quite as well that a certain romantic
affair which was confided to me came to nothing. A week after she left
my house, I received a very stiff (not to say impertinent) letter, in
which the young lady informed me that she was about to marry a Mr.
Yabsley of Northampton, a man (to quote her words) 'of the highest
powers and with a brilliant future already assured to him.' This seemed
to me, I confess, a little sudden, but at least it had the merit of
being amusing. Perhaps I may venture to hope that you are already quite
consoled? Remember me, I beg, to Miss Bride. Are you likely to be in
this part of the world during the holidays? If anywhere near, do come
and see me, and we will talk about that striking philosophical theory
of yours."

Lashmar bit his lip. All at once he saw Mrs. Toplady's smile, and it
troubled him. None the less did he ponder her letter, re-reading it
several times. Presently he mused with uneasiness on the fact that Iris
might even now be writing to Mrs. Toplady. Would her interest in
him--she seemed indeed to be genuinely interested survive the
announcement that, after all, he was not going to marry Constance
Bride, but had declined upon an insignificant little widow with a few
hundreds a year? Was not this upshot of his adventures too beggarly?
Had Mrs. Toplady been within easy reach, he would have gone to see her;
but she wrote from the north of Scotland. He could only await the
result of Iris's letter.

To the news concerning May Tomalin, he gave scarcely a thought. Mr.
Yabsley, of Northampton!

Exceeding weariness sank him for a few hours in sleep; but before dawn
he was tossing again on the waves of miserable doubt. Why had he not
waited a little before going to see Iris? If only he had received this
letter of Mrs. Toplady in time, it would have checked him--or so he
thought. Was it the malice of fate which had ordained that, on his way
to Eastbourne, he should not have troubled to look in at his lodgings?
How many such wretched accidents he could recall! Was he, instead of
being fortune's favourite, simply a poor devil hunted by ill luck,
doomed to lose every chance? Why not he as well as another? Such men
abound.

He had not yet taken the irretrievable step