"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 sympathy. "That's what she said." "Did you cry?" "Not me!" she scorned. "Cry? Not me! Not for no mountain like her!" "And what," he asked, "did Lord Wychester do?" "'Back to the side-show, Duchess!' says Lord Wychester. 'You're too fat for decent company. My friend the Dook,' says he, 'may be partial to fat ladies and ten-cent freaks; but _my_ taste runs to slim blondes.'" No amusement was excited by Lord Wychester's second sally. In the world she knew, it would have provoked a shout of laughter. The boy's gravity disquieted her. "Did you laugh?" he asked. "Everybody," she answered, pitifully, "give her the laugh." He sighed--somewhat wistfully. "I wish," he said, "that _you_ hadn't." "Why not!" she wondered, in genuine surprise. "I don't know." "Why, dear!" she exclaimed, a note of alarm in her voice. "It isn't bad manners! Anyhow," she qualified, quick to catch her cue, "I didn't laugh much. I hardly laughed at all. I don't believe I _did_ laugh." "I'm glad," he said. Then, "I'm sure of it," she ventured, boldly; and she observed with relief that he was not incredulous. "Did the Duchess cry?" "Oh, my, no! 'Waiter,' says the Duchess, 'open another bottle of that wine. I feel faint.'" "What did Lord Wychester do then?"