Three-quarters of an hour later, Sophy walked up to Miss Deane and held out her book in silence. Then she went through her task without a single mistake. She took back the book, made Miss Deane an elaborate curtsey, and marched out of the room with the dignified air of a young duchess. Carry did not manage so well. She broke down when about half-way through, and burst into tears. Olive quietly shut the book, drew the girl to her and kissed her, and then bade her run off and get some supper. From that day forth, Miss Deane and her pupils were on the best possible terms. CHAPTER VIII. GERALD AT STAMMARS. A pleasant morning-room at Stammars. Lady Dudgeon is busy with her correspondence. To her enter Sir Thomas and Mr. Pomeroy. The former has a volume of Hansard under his arm, the latter carries a roll of manuscript. Lady Dudgeon lays down her pen and looks up. "There is no fear, I hope, Mr. Pomeroy," she says, "that Sir Thomas's letter of thanks to his supporters will be too late for the next issue of the 'Pembridge Gazette'?" "The editor has promised me that it shall appear on Saturday without fail." "Have you got the speech ready that Sir Thomas is to deliver at the Farmer's Dinner on Tuesday next?" "Sir Thomas had it from me yesterday." "Have you looked over it, my dear?"--to the baronet. "I fell asleep over it last night while you were at the ball." "And you doubtless found that Mr. Pomeroy had succeeded in faithfully reproducing your views and ideas with regard to the various important topics on which you are desirous of addressing our friends on Tuesday next?" "Mr. Pomeroy has written the speech. If he would only speak it too, I----" "That is nonsense, dear. No one but yourself must be the exponent of your own ideas. Mr. Pomeroy's share in the transaction is a purely mechanical one--that of finding words wherewith to clothe the thoughts of a profoundly original mind. Am I not right, Mr. Pomeroy?" "Your ladyship could not be otherwise." "So be it," said Sir Thomas. "Anything for a quiet life. But I'll be hanged if I ever knew before that I had such a lot of ideas." "That is just what I have said all along, my dear. If you had never succeeded in getting into Parliament, what would have become of the splendid abilities, of the choice gifts of intellect, with which Nature has so liberally endowed you? They would simply have been wasted, and your country would have been so much the poorer by the loss of them." "That is all very fine, your ladyship; but as for my splendid abilities--fudge! My abilities lie among my turnips and short-horns, and not in speechifying to a lot of fellows who laugh at me the moment my back is turned." "The modesty of real talent, Mr. Pomeroy." "Just so, madam." "I have not been your wife all these years, Sir Thomas, without being aware that you were born to be a landmark in your country's history." "Heaven forbid! Why not make a milestone of me at once?"