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.
"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."