The maid came to lay the table in the dining-room. Constance controlled herself.
"Mamma," he said, jestingly, now that Mathilde also returned, "you're losing all your vanity! That's a nice old blouse to come and see your son in! Look, it's wearing out at the elbows. Do you know you haven't looked at all smart lately?"
"Oh, my dear boy. This blouse is quite good still!"
"Well, I think it's seen its best days. What do you say, Tilly?"
"Why should I get myself up, an old woman like me?" said Constance.
"You'll never be old, Mummie, and a well-turned-out woman must always remain well-turned-out. . . . Do you remember the old days?"
"Yes, when . . ."
"You brought home that fine photograph from Nice?"
She smiled through her tears:
"My boy, that is so long ago! . . . You thought me a bundle of vanity then."
"The photograph never leaves my writing-table. . . . Mamma, you mustn't let yourself go like that."
"Very well, I don't wear this blouse any more. . . . But it costs so much to dress nicely . . . and we have so many expenses."
"You were not rich in the old days," said Mathilde, piqued at something that she did not understand.
"And yet Mamma wore dresses that cost six hundred francs," said Addie, chaffingly.
"Yes; and now that you are well off . . ."
"Now I never dream of doing such a thing," said Constance, gently.
The luncheon was quiet, a little melancholy, a
