There was the piano upon which Laurencine had played! The embrasure of the window! The corner in which Irene had sat spellbound by Jules Defourcambault! The portraits of Irene, at least one of which would perpetuate her name! The glazed cases full of her collections!... The chief
pieces of furniture and all the chairs were draped in the pale, ghostly sheeting.
Suddenly Lois, rushing to the mantelpiece, cried:
"This is what I shall take."
It was a large photograph of Jules Defourcambault, bearing the words: " À Miss Irene Wheeler. Hommages respectueux de J.D.F."
"You won't!" he exclaimed, incredulous, shocked. He thought: "She is mad!"
"Yes, I shall."
There were hundreds of beautiful objects in the place, and she chose a banal photograph of a despicable creature whom she detested.
"Why don't you take one of her portraits? Or even a fan. What on earth do you want with a thing like that?" His voice was changing.
"I shall take it and keep it for ever. He was the cause of it all. This photograph was everything to her once."