“Well, no; not that I remember.”
“Excuse me a minute,” said Ina Klosking, and went hurriedly from the room.
Ashmead thought her manner very strange, but concluded she was a little unhinged by yesterday's excitement. Moreover, there faced him an omelet of enormous size, and savory. 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.