as he would not look like her, she tried to look like him--to be
a. boy like him. She bought a smart new hat, she composed a jaunty
costume, new from top to toe, for EVERYTHING must be altered with
the hair. But when she stood before him, looking like a girl of
twenty-five, merry, almost boisterous, he was simply dismayed--
nay, it was some time before he could altogether comprehend what
had happened. As long as he could remember his mother, her eyes
had always looked forth from beneath a crown; more solemn, more
beautiful.

"Mother," he said, "where are you?"

She grew pale and grave, and stammered something about its being
more comfortable--about red hair not looking well when it began to
lose its colour--and went into her room. There she sat with his
hair before her and her own beside it; she wept.

"Mother, where are you?" She might have answered, "Rafael, where
are you?"

She went about with him everywhere. In France two handsome,
stylishly dressed people are always certain to be noticed, a thing
which she thoroughly appreciated.

During their different expeditions she always spoke French; he
begged her to talk Norse at least now and then, but all in vain.

Here, too, they visited every possible and impossible factory.
Unpractical and reserved as she was on ordinary occasions, she
could be full of artifice and coquetry whenever she wished to gain