"I thought to please you, dear aunt," observes my wife, "by embroidering
for you this cushion, which I beg you to accept."

"I thank you, child, but I can still hold myself sufficiently upright,
thank God, not to have any need of a cushion. The embroidery is
charming, it is an Oriental design. You might have made a better choice,
knowing that I like things much more simple. It is charming, however,
although this red next to the green here sets one's teeth on edge. Taste
in colors is, however, not given to every one. I have, in return, to
offer you my photograph, which that dear Abbe Miron insisted on my having
taken."

"How kind you are, and how like you it is! Do you recognize your aunt,
Baby?"

"Do not think yourself obliged to speak contrary to your opinion. This
photograph does not in any way resemble me, my eyes are much brighter.
I have also a packet of jujubes for your child. He seems to have grown."

"Baby, go and kiss your aunt."

"And then we shall go, mamma?"

"You are very rude, my dear."

"Let him speak out; at any rate, he is frank. But I see that your
husband is getting impatient, you have other . . . errands to fulfil;
I will not keep you. Besides, I am going to church to pray for those who
do not pray for themselves."