half-a-dozen years at
least, Mrs. Lashmar had urged upon Lady Susan the claims of her son to
social countenance and more practical forms of advancement; hitherto
with no result--save, indeed, that Dyce dined once every season at the
Harrops' table. The subject was painful to Mr. Lashmar also, but it
affected him in a different way, and he had long ceased to speak of it.

"That selfish, frivolous woman!" sounded presently from behind the
coffee-service, not now in accents of wrath, but as the deliberate
utterance of cold judgment. "Never in all her life has she thought of
anyone but herself. What right has such a being to bring children into
the world? What can be expected of them but meanness and hypocrisy?"

Mr. Lashmar smiled. He had just broken an imperfect tooth upon a piece
of toast, and, as usual when irritated, his temper became ironic.

"Sweet are the uses of disappointment," he observed. "How it clears
one's vision!"

"Do you suppose I ever had any better opinion of Lady Susan?" exclaimed
his wife.

It was a principle of Mr. Lashmar's never to argue with a woman. Sadly
smiling, he rose from the table.

"Here's an article you ought to read," he said, holding out the weekly
paper. "It's fall of truth, well expressed. It may even have some
bearing on this question."

The vicar went about his long day's work, and took with him many uneasy
reflections. He bad not thought of it before breakfast, but now it
struck him that much in that pungent article on the men of to-day might
perchance apply to the character and conduct of his own son. "A habit
of facile enthusiasm, not perhaps altogether insincere, but totally
without moral value . . . convictions assumed at will, as a matter of
fashion, or else of singularity . . . the lack of stable purpose, save
only in matters of gross self-interest . . . an increasing tendency to
verbose expression . . . an all but utter lack of what old-fashioned
people still call principle. . . ." these phrases recurred to his
memory, with disagreeable significance. Was that in truth a picture of
his son, of the boy whom he had loved and watched over and so zealously
hoped for? Possibly he wronged Dyce, for the young man's mind and heart
had long ceased to be clearly legible to him. "Worst, perhaps, of all
these frequent traits is the affectation of--to use a silly
word--altruism. The most radically selfish of men seem capable of
persuading themselves into the belief that their prim