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who mocked at her despair, peered forth the lineaments of the third Napoleon, his Empress, the Prince Imperial, Queen Victoria, the Kaiser,—every royal personage before whom she had ever danced. Even Eitel Gustav (depicted with straws in his hair) had his place somewhere in the background of this jeering array. Beneath the drawing was written:

Eheu fugaces Postume Postume |Labuntur anni. . . .

Lina continued to stare for several seconds at this production. Then she tore it into small pieces. She was ice-pale and her hands shook. She said aloud, defiantly, as though to reassure herself:

"And I am only thirty-seven!"

She never mentioned the caricature to Paul, nor he to her. She was too bitterly hurt, for in her son's conception of the present she could glimpse only the future—her future—and for a moment she recoiled in panic. Soon af ter this incident Paul returned to Louvain.

And then her garden was her own once more and she resumed her old life,—basking in the sun, meditating new ballets, perusing old copies of The Times, solitary and at peace.

But she dreamed more than once of Paul's drawing.

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