"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 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!"