that she hadn't had to go to Europe for. The only thing was that he blessed her for bringing it back. "Ah, the ideas of people now—!"
"Yes, their ideas are certainly not about us." But he ruefully faced it. "We've none the less, however, to live with them."
"With their ideas—?" Cornelia questioned.
"With them—these modern wonders; such as they are!" Then he went on: "It must have been to help me you've come back."
She said nothing for an instant about that, only nodding instead at his photograph. "What has become of yours? I mean of her."
This time it made him turn pale. "You remember I have one?"
She kept her eyes on him. "In a 'pork-pie' hat, with her hair in a long net. That was so 'smart' then; especially with one's skirt looped up, over one's hooped magenta petticoat, in little festoons, and a row of very big onyx beads over one's braided velveteen sack—braided quite plain and very broad, don't you know?"
He smiled for her extraordinary possession of these things—she was as prompt as if she had had them before her. "Oh, rather—'don't I know?' You wore brown velveteen, and, on those remarkably small hands, funny gauntlets—like mine."
"Oh, do you remember? But like yours?" she wondered.
"I mean like hers in my photograph." But he
