Constance was playing a game (so Dyce saw it) with all the cards visible before her, and, to such a profound observer as he, it was not unnatural to suppose that she played for something worth the while.

Curiously enough, Dyce did not presume to believe that he himself, his person, his mind, his probable career, were gain sufficient.

A singular modesty ruled his meditations at this juncture.
Other things were happening which interfered with the confident calm essential to his comfort.

Since the vexatious little incident at Mrs.
Toplady's, he had not seen Iris Woolstan.

On the eve of his departure for Rivenoak, he wrote to her, a friendly letter in the usual strain, just to acquaint her with his movements, and to this letter there came no reply.