He thought this worthy to divide a man's
attention even with the great creature's tantrums. He devoted himself to
it, and it occupied him so agreeably that he did not observe the conduct
of Mademoiselle Klosking on her return. She placed three photographs
softly on the table, not very far from him, and then resumed her seat;
but her eye never left him: and she gave monosyllabic and almost
impatient replies to everything he mumbled with his mouth full of omelet.
When he had done his omelet, he noticed the photographs. They were all
colored. He took one up. It was an elderly woman, sweet, venerable, and
fair-haired. He looked at Ina, and at the photograph, and said, "This is
your mother."
"It is."
"It is angelic--as might be expected."
He took up another.
"This is your brother, I suppose. Stop. Haloo!--what is this? Are my eyes
making a fool of me?"
He held out the photograph at arm's length, and stared from it to her.
"Why, madam," said he, in an awestruck voice, "this is the gentleman--the
player--I'd swear to him."
Ina started from her seat while he spoke. "Ah!" she cried, "I thought
so--my Edward!" and sat down, trembling violently.
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