m about his waist,
they bent over the page: whereon some function of the rich, to which
the presence of the Duchess of Croft and of the distinguished Lord
Wychester had given sensational importance, was grotesquely pictured.

"Now, mother," said he, spreading the picture flat, "show me you."

"This here lady," she answered, evasively, "is the Duchess of Croft."

"Is it?" he asked, without interest. "She is very fat. Where are you?"

"And here," she proceeded, "is Lord Wychester."

"Mother," he demanded, "where are _you_?"

She was disconcerted; no promising evasion immediately occurred to her.
"Maybe," she began, tentatively, "this lady here----"

"Oh, no!" he cried, looking up with a little laugh. "It is not like
you, at all!"

"Well," she said, "it's probably meant for me."

He shook his head; and by the manner of this she knew that he would not
be deceived.

"Perhaps," she said, "the Duchess told the man not to put me in the
picture. I guess that's it. She was awful jealous. You see, dear,"
she went on, very solemnly, "Lord Wychester took a great fancy to me."

He looked up with interest.

"To--my shape," she added.

"Oh!" said he.

"And that," she continued, noting his pleasure, "made the Duchess hot;
for _she's_ too fat to have much of a figure. Most men, you know," she
added, as though reluctant in her own praise, "do fancy mine." She
brushed his cheek with her lips. "Don't you think, dear," she asked,
assuming an air of girlish coquetry, thus to compel the compliment,
"that I'm--rather--pretty?"

"I think, mother," he answered, positively, "that you're very, very
pretty."

It made her eyes shine to hear it. "Well," she resumed, improvising
more confidently, now, "the Duchess was awful mortified because Lord
Wychester danced with me seventeen times. 'Lord Wychester,' says she,
'what _do_ you see in that blonde with the diamonds?' 'Duchess,' says
he, 'I bet the blonde don't weigh over a hundred and ten!'"

There was no answering smile; the boy glanced at the picture of the
wise and courtly old Lord Wychester, gravely regarded that of the
Duchess of Croft, of whose matronly charms, of whose charities and
amiable qualities, all the world knows.

"What did she say?" he asked.

"'Oh, dear me, Lord Wychester!' says she. 'If you're looking for
bones,' says she, 'that blonde is a regular glue-factory!'"

He caught his breath.

"'A regular glue-factory,'" she repeated, inviting sympa