of of a large photograph, and we both looked at it in
silence.

"Is it me?" I asked.

"Yes," he said quietly, "it is you," and we went on looking at it.

"The eyes," I said hesitatingly, "don't look very much like mine."

"Oh, no," he answered, "I've retouched them. They come out splendidly,
don't they?"

"Fine," I said, "but surely my eyebrows are not like that?"

"No," said the photographer, with a momentary glance at my face, "the
eyebrows are removed. We have a process now--the Delphide--for putting
in new ones. You'll notice here where we've applied it to carry the hair
away from the brow. I don't like the hair low on the skull."

"Oh, you don't, don't you?" I said.

"No," he went on, "I don't care for it. I like to get the hair clear
back to the superficies and make out a new brow line."

"What about the mouth?" I said with a bitterness that was lost on the
photographer; "is that mine?"

"It's adjusted a little," he said, "yours is too low. I found I couldn't
use it."

"The ears, though," I said, "strike me as a good likeness; they're just
like mine."

[Illustration: "Is it me?"]

"Yes," said the photographer thoughtfully, "that's so; but I can fix
that all right in the print. We have a process now--the Sulphide--for
removing the ears entirely. I'll see if----"

"Listen!" I interrupted, drawing myself up and animating my features to
their full extent and speaking with a withering scorn that should have
blasted the man on the spot. "Listen! I came here for a photograph--a
picture--something which (mad though it seems) would have looked like
me. I wanted something that would depict my face as Heaven gave it to
me, humble though the gift may have been. I wanted something that my
friends might keep after my death, to reconcile them to my loss. It
seems that I was mistaken. What I wanted is no longer done. Go on, then,
with your brutal work. Take your negative, or whatever it is you call
it,--dip it in sulphide, bromide, oxide, cowhide,--anything you
like,--remove the eyes, correct the mouth, adjust the face, restore the
lips, reanimate the necktie and reconstruct the waistcoat. Coat it with
an inch of gloss, shade it, emboss it, gild it, till even you
acknowledge that it is finished. Then when you have done all that--keep
it for yourself and your friends. They may value it. To me it is but a
worthless bauble."

I broke into tears and left.

_II.--The Dentist and the Gas_

"I THINK," said