Arrived at the ground-floor, she quitted her chair and walked into the drawing-room with step which was almost firm. Here, among the flowers and leafage, sat May Tomalin, who, surprised at her aunt's early appearance, rose forward with an exclamation of pleasure. "How well you look this morning, aunt!" "I'm glad you think so, my dear," was the pleased and dignified reply. "Be so kind, May, as to go into the library, and wait there until I send for you." The girl turned pale. For a moment, she thought her escapade of this morning had been discovered, and that terrible things were about to happen. Her fright could not escape Lady Ogram's observation. "What, have I frightened you? Did it remind you of being sent into the corner when you were a little girl?" She laughed with discordant gaiety. "Really, for the moment I thought I was being punished," replied May. And she too laughed, a melodious trill. A quarter of an hour passed. Lady Ogram presented herself at the library door, and saw May reading, whilst Constance Bride sat writing at the table. "Come, both of you!" Surprised at the look and tone with which they were summoned, the two followed into the drawing-room, where, guided by Lady Ogram's glance, they became aware of a new ornament. They approached; they gazed; they wondered. "Who is that?" asked their conductress, turning to Miss Bride. Constance felt no doubt as to the person whom the bust was supposed to represent, and her disgust at what she thought the shameless flattery practised by the sculptor hardly allowed her to reply. "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.