"Oh, no," he answered, "I"ve retouched them. They come out splendidly, don"t they?"

"Fine," I said, "but surely my eyebrows are not like that?"

"No," said the photographer, with a momentary glance at my face, "the eyebrows are removed. We have a process now--the Delphide--for putting in new ones. You"ll notice here where we"ve applied it to carry the hair away from the brow. I don"t like the hair low on the skull."

"Oh, you don"t, don"t you?" I said.

"No," he went on, "I don"t care for it. I like to get the hair clear back to the superficies and make out a new brow line."

"What about the mouth?" I said with a bitterness that was lost on the photographer; "is that mine?"

"It"s adjusted a little," he said, "yours is too low. I found I couldn"t use it."

"The ears, though," I said, "strike me as a good likeness; they"re just like mine."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Is it me?"]

"Yes," said the photographer thoughtfully, "that"s so; but I can fix that all right in the print. We have a process now--the Sulphide--for removing the ears entirely. I"ll see if----"

"Listen!" I interrupted, drawing myself up and animating my features to their full extent and speaking with a withering scorn that should have blasted the man on the spot. "Listen! I came here for a photograph--a picture--something which (mad though it seems) would have looked like me. I wanted something that would depict my face as Heaven gave it to me, humble though the gift may have been. I wanted something that my friends might keep after my death, to reconcile them to my loss. It seems that I was mistaken. What I wanted is no longer done. Go on, then, with your brutal work. Take your negative, or whatever it is you call it,--dip it in sulphide, bromide, oxide, cowhide,--anything you like,--remove the eyes, correct the mouth, adjust the face, restore the lips, reanimate the necktie and reconstruct the waistcoat. Coat it with an inch of gloss, shade it, emboss it, gild it, till even you acknowledge that it is finished. Then when you have done all that--keep it for yourself and your friends. They may value it. To me it is but a worthless bauble."

I broke into tears and left.

_II.--The Dentist and the Gas_

"I THINK," said the dentist, stepping outside again, "I"d better give you gas."

Then he moved aside and hummed an air from a light opera while he mixed up cement.

I sat up in my shroud.

"Gas!" I said.

"Yes," he repeated, "gas, or else ether or a sulphuric anesthetic, or else beat you into insensibility with a club, or give you three thousand bolts of electricity."

These may not have been his exact words. But they convey the feeling of them very nicely.

I could see the light of primitive criminality shining behind the man"s spectacles.

And to think that this was _my_ fault--the result of my own reckless neglect. I had grown so used to sitting back dozing in my shroud in the dentist"s chair, listening to the twittering of the birds outside, my eyes closed in the sweet half sleep of perfect security, that the old apprehensiveness and mental agony had practically all gone.

He didn"t hurt me, and I knew it.

I had grown--I know it sounds mad--almost to like him.

For a time I had kept up the appearance of being hurt every few minutes, just as a precaution. Then even that had ceased and I had dropped into vainglorious apathy.

It was this, of course, which had infuriated the dentist. He meant to rea.s.sert his power. He knew that nothing but gas could rouse me out of my lethargy and he meant to apply it--either gas or some other powerful pain stimulant.

So, as soon as he said "_gas_," my senses were alert in a moment.

"When are you going to do it?" I said in horror.

"Right now, if you like," he answered.

His eyes were glittering with what the Germans call _Blutl.u.s.t_. All dentists have it.

I could see that if I took my eye off him for a moment he might spring at me, gas in hand, and throttle me.

"No, not now, I can"t stay now," I said, "I have an appointment, a whole lot of appointments, urgent ones, the most urgent I ever had." I was unfastening my shroud as I spoke.

"Well, then, to-morrow," said the dentist.

"No," I said, "to-morrow is Sat.u.r.day. And Sat.u.r.day is a day when I simply can"t take gas. If I take gas, even the least bit of gas on a Sat.u.r.day, I find it"s misunderstood----"

"Monday then."

"Monday, I"m afraid, won"t do. It"s a bad day for me--worse than I can explain."

"Tuesday?" said the dentist.

"Not Tuesday," I answered. "Tuesday is the worst day of all. On Tuesday my church society meets, and I _must_ go to it."

I hadn"t been near it, in reality, for three years, but suddenly I felt a longing to attend it.

"On Wednesday," I went on, speaking hurriedly and wildly, "I have another appointment, a swimming club, and on Thursday two appointments, a choral society and a funeral. On Friday I have another funeral.

Sat.u.r.day is market day. Sunday is washing day. Monday is drying day----"

"Hold on," said the dentist, speaking very firmly. "You come to-morrow morning: I"ll write the engagement for ten o"clock."

I think it must have been hypnotism.

Before I knew it, I had said "Yes."

I went out.

On the street I met a man I knew.

"Have you ever taken gas from a dentist?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," he said; "it"s nothing."

Soon after I met another man.

"Have you ever taken gas?" I asked.