“Haven't you?” exclaimed Jane. “Well, you ought to see them. I have Madeline's with me. It is a dream, if I do say it as I took it.”
She produced the snapshot, which showed her friend standing beside the silver-leaf tree before the druggist's window and smiling at the camera. It was a good likeness and, consequently, a very pretty picture.
“Isn't it a dream, just as I said?” demanded the artist. “Honest now, isn't it?”
Albert of course declared it to be beyond praise.
“May I have this one?” he asked, on the impulse of the moment.
“Don't ask me, stupid,” commanded Jane, mischievously. “It isn't my funeral—or my portrait, either.”
“May I?” he repeated, turning to Madeline. She hesitated.
“Why—why yes, you may, if you care for it,” she said. “That particular one is Jane's, anyway, and if she chooses to give it away I don't see how I can prevent her. But why you should want the old thing I can't conceive. I look as stiff and wooden as a sign-post.”
Jane held up a protesting finger.
“Fibs, fibs, fibs,” she observed. “Can't conceive why he should want it! As if you weren't perfectly aware that he will wear it next his heart and—Oh, don't put it in THAT pocket! I said next your heart, and that isn't on your RIGHT side.”