"Splendidly expressed!" exclaimed Irene from the mirror. "Cara's soul is so primitive, yours—"
"So decadent," put in Maryan.
"That you have a right to be called her great-grandfather."
"I greet you great-grandmother!" laughed he at Irene.
"I say this, mother, for, as you see, I understand my elder sister perfectly, but not the little one yet; however, that will come some time—surely soon. Mais revenons a nos moutons: How about the portrait?"
Malvina laughed. Her face, greatly troubled an hour before, had grown young again. A certain sunray had pierced the thick cloud at that moment. She warded off the idea of the portrait.
"Why? There are too many portraits of me already. Oh, too many!"
"Caricatures!" exclaimed Maryan, "and none of them is mine. I beg a portrait for myself specially; my own exclusive property."
"What for?" repeated Malvina. "Look at the original as often as you like. Better not have a portrait; then, perhaps, you will feel the need of seeing me oftener."
"No reproaches, dear mother! Leave reproaches, threats; let the whole patriarchal arsenal remain on that side, over there—"