"What a picture! My love, I positively must carry out my intention of having you painted in oils, with the children round you .-- Mr.Mahony, sir, have you ever seen anything to equal it ?" Though his mental attitude might have been expressed by a note of exclamation, set ironically, Mahony felt constrained to second Turnham's enthusiasm.

And it was indeed a lovely picture: the gracious, golden-haired woman, whose figure had the amplitude, her gestures the almost sensual languor of the young nursing mother; the two children fawning at her knee, both ash-blond, with vivid scarlet lips.--"It helps one," thought Mahony, "to understand the mother-worship of primitive peoples." The nursemaid summoned and the children borne off, Mrs.Emma exchanged a few amiable words with the visitor, then obeyed with an equally good grace her husband's command to rest for an hour, before dressing for the ball.
Having escorted her to another room, Turnham came back rubbing his hands.

"I am pleased to be able to tell you, Mr.Mahony, that your suit has my wife's approval.

You are highly favoured! Emma is not free with her liking." Then, in a sudden burst of effusion: "I could have wished you the pleasure, sir, of seeing my wife in evening attire.

She will make a furore again; no other woman can hold a candle to her in a ballroom.