he has written nothing, nor will he ever again.  I know people who lament his fate, who declare that marriage was his ruin, and a crime against civilisation.  The other day, I called upon him—­not having seen him for ages.  I found a rather uncomfortable little house, a pretty, dull little wife, and three beautiful children in the most vigorous health.  ‘Alas!’ said my friend to me in private, ’I try to work, but I can do nothing.  I need absolute tranquillity, such as I had when I wrote my book.  I try, but domestic life is fatal to me.’  Now, what better example of what you say, Lord Dymchurch?  To us it seems a misfortune to the world that this man didn’t live on in bachelorhood and write more exquisite books.  But nature says ‘What do I care for his books?’ ’Look at his children!’ That’s what she meant him for, and from Nature’s point of view he is a triumphant success.”

Dymchurch seemed not only amused, but pleased.  He grew thoughtful, and sat smiling to himself whilst others carried on the conversation.

The evening passed.  Lady Amys gave the signal of retirement; May and Constance followed; the baronet and the peer chatted for yet a few minutes with their hostess, then bade her good-night.  But, just as he was leaving the room, Dymchurch heard Lady Ogram call his name; he stepped back towards her.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said, “that Mr. Lashmar will lunch with us the day after to-morrow.  Of course he is very busy at Hollingford.”

“I shall be glad to see him,” replied the other, cordially.  “I wish I could help him in any way.”

Lady Ogram resumed her seat.  She was looking at the marble bust, and Dymchurch, following the direction of her eyes, also regarded it.

“Until this morning,” she said, “I hadn’t seen that for more than fifty years.  I would tell you why—­but I should only send you to sleep.”

Her guest begged to hear the story, and sat down to listen.  Though the day had been so unusually long and fatiguing, Lady Ogram seemed to feel no effect of it; her eyes were still lustrous she held herself with as much dignity as when the guests arrived.  She began a narrative of such clearness and vigour that the listener never thought of doubting its truth; yet the story of her youth as the lady of Rivenoak wished Lord Dymchurch to receive it differed in very important points from that which her memory preserved.  Not solely, nor indeed chiefly, on her own account did Arabella thus falsify the past; it was as the ancestress of May Tomalin that she spoke, and on behalf of May’s possible children.  Dymchurch, looking back into years long before he was born, saw a beautiful maiden of humble birth loyally wooed and wedded by a romantic artist, son of a proud baronet.  Of course she became the butt of calumny, which found its chief support in the fact that the young artist had sculptured her portrait, and indiscreetly shown it to friends, before their marriage.  Hearing