“Of course,” she said, in as even a voice as possible, “it is a portrait of Miss Tomalin.”

Lady Ogram’s eyes shone; on the point of laughing, she restrained herself, and looked at her niece.

“May, what do you think?”

“Really, aunt, I don’t know what to think,” answered the girl, in a happy confusion.  “If Miss Bride is right—­it’s very, very kind of you.  But how was it done without my sitting?”

This time, the old lady’s mirth had its way.

“How, indeed!  There’s a mystery for you both, my dears!—­May, it’s true you are like me, but don’t let Constance make you conceited.  Go near, and look at the date carved on the marble.”

“Why, aunt, of course it is you yourself!” exclaimed the girl, her averted face long-drawn in mortification; she saw the smile with which Miss Bride had received this disclosure.  “How wonderful!”

“You can hardly believe it?”

Some incredulity might have been excused in one who turned from that superb head, with its insolent youth and beauty, to the painted death-mask grinning there before it.  Yet the marble had not flattered, and, looking closely enough, you saw a reminiscence of its contour in the bloodless visage which, since that proud moment, had chronicled the passions of three-score years.

“How stupid not to have understood at once,” said May, the epithet privately directed towards Constance.

“It’s a magnificent bust!” declared Miss Bride, examining it now with sincere interest.  “Who was the sculptor, Lady Ogram?”

“My husband,” answered the old lady, with pride.  “Sir Quentin had much talent, and this was the best thing he ever did.”

“And it has just come into your possession?” asked May.

“No, my dear.  But I thought you would like to see it.”

An hour later, Dyce Lashmar arrived.  He was conducted at once to the drawing-room, where Lady Ogram still sat with May and Constance.

“I expected you,” cried the senile voice, on a high note.

“I heard the news at dinner-time yesterday;” said Lashmar.  “Just caught the last train, and sat up half the night with Breakspeare.”

“I sent you a telegram the first thing this morning,” said Lady Ogram.  “Had you left Alverholme before it arrived?”

“I was in town,” answered Dyce, only now remembering that he had to account for his movements.  “A letter called me up yesterday morning.”

The old autocrat was in no mood for trifling explanations.  She passed the point, and began to ask the news from Hollingford.  Who would be the Conservative candidate?  They talked, said Dyce, of a stranger to the town, a man named Butterworth, one of Robb’s private friends.

“It’s Butterworth of the hoardings—­Butterworth’s jams and pickles, you know.  He’s made a million out of them, and now thinks of turning his energies to the public service.  Robb, it seems, didn’t mean to face another election, and of late had privately spoken here and there of Butterworth.”