“Jams and pickles!” cried Lady Ogram, with a croaking laugh.  “Will the Hollingford Tories stand that?”

“Why not?  Robb evidently thought they would, and he knew them.  Butterworth is a stout Unionist, I’m told, and if he makes another million he may look for a peerage.  Jam has not hitherto been thought so respectable as ale or stout, but that’s only a prejudice.  Robb’s enlightened mind saw the budding aristocrat.  Breakspeare is thinking out an article on the deceased champion of aristocratic traditions, to be followed by another on the blazonry of the jam-pot and pickle-jar.  We shall have merry reading when decorum releases our friend’s pen.”

As his eyes stole towards May Tomalin, Dyce perceived the marble bust.  He gazed at it in silent surprise.  The looks of all were upon him; turning, he met smiles of inquiry.

“Well?” said Lady Ogram, bluntly.

“Who is that?  Is it a new work?” he inquired, with diffidence.

“It looks new, doesn’t it?”

“I should have thought,” said Dyce, reflectively, “that it represented Lady Ogram at about the same age as in the painting.”

“Constance,” exclaimed the old lady, vastly pleased, “congratulate Mr. Lashmar.”

“Then I am right,” cried Dyce, encountering Constance’s look.  “What a fine bit of work!  What a magnificent head!”

He moved nearer to it, and continued freely to express his admiration.  The resemblance to May Tomalin had struck him, he thought it probable that some sculptor had amused himself by idealising the girl’s suggestive features; but at this juncture it seemed to him more prudent, as in any case it would be politic, to affect to see only a revival of Lady Ogram’s youth.  It startled him to find that his tact had guided him so well.

He continued to behave with all prudence, talking through luncheon chiefly with the hostess, and directing hardly a remark to May, who, on her side, maintained an equal discretion.  Afterwards, he saw Lady Ogram in private.

“You mean to stay on at the hotel, no doubt,” she said.  “Yes, it’ll be more convenient for you than if you came here.  But look in and let us know how things go on.  Let me see, to-morrow is Wednesday; don’t come to-morrow.  On Thursday I may have something to tell you; yes, come and lunch on Thursday.  You understand—­on Thursday.  And there’s something else I may as well say at once; the expenses of the election are my affair.”

Dyce began a grateful protest, but was cut short.

“I say that is my affair.  We’ll talk about it when the fight is over.  No petty economies!  In a day or two, when things are in order, we must have Breakspeare here.  Perhaps you had better go away for the day of Robb’s funeral.  Yes, don’t be seen about on that day.  Spare no useful expense; I give you a free hand.  Only win; that’s all I ask of you.  I shan’t like it if you’re beaten by jams and pickles.  And lunch here on Thursday—­you understand?”