ote 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 these slanderous rumou