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" shall Mamma show you what she looked like at the Duc de Rivoli's?"

Dinner was over and she was sitting by her open trunk, while Truitje helped her unpack and put the things away.

"I had my photograph taken at Nice. But first here's a work-box for Truitje, with Nice violets on it. Look, Truitje: it's palm-wood inlaid; a present for you. And here's one for cook."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am!"

"And for my wise son I hunted all over Nice for a souvenir and found nothing, for I was afraid of bringing you something not serious enough for your patriarchal tastes; and so I had myself photographed for you. There: the last frivolous portrait of your mother."

She took the photograph from its envelope: it showed her at full-length, standing, in her ball-dress; a photograph taken with a great deal of artistry and chic, but too young, too much touched up, with a little too much pose about the hair, the fan, the train.

He looked at her with a smile.

"Well, what do you think of it?" she asked.

"What a bundle of vanity you are, Mamma!"