NECROPOLIS 



A Hungarian friend of ours derived much solace in the loss 

 of an adored mother by the choosing of a coffin 7 ' Louis 

 XV, with little Watteau bows of ormolu/ 7 She smiled 

 with real joy, through her tears as she described the casket 

 to us, adding : 



" And I have chosen just such another for myself for ven 

 I die!" 



She stared in amazement when I remarked that I should not 

 care what my coffin was like. 



" Vat ? " she exclaimed, "not like to be buried in a Vatteau 

 coffin ? But it is so pretty ! " 



Alas ! she lies in her pretty coffin, and our world is much 

 the poorer. But we are sure that during the long months 

 of her last illness, when she shut herself away from every 

 one in the solitude of her great Hungarian property, to face 

 death alone, the thought of those Watteau bows was a 

 distinct satisfaction. 



Never was there a creature so instinct with life as she ! 

 It was little wonder she could not imagine herself as past 

 caring for the small pleasures for which she had always 

 had so keen a taste. She never lost the heart of a child, 

 Though when last we saw her she must have been, as 

 years go, almost an old woman, there was no touch of 

 age about her : only a snowier white of her hair made her 

 more like an adorable little Marquise than ever. Her 

 pretty picturesque ways were unchanged, her eager sym- 

 pathy, the delicious freshness of her mind, the lightness, 

 the charm, the simplicity. 



She had a soft oval face ,- rich southern tints / the bluest 

 eyes between black lashes that it is possible to imagine/ 

 her small nose like a falcon's beak which gave a character 



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