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."

"Jams and pickles!" cried Lady Ogram, with a croaking laugh. "Will t