"Mine's a view of Windermere."
"This is a snap of our fox-terrier, Barry. It's got him absolutely perfectly."
"Oh, you'll like mine! It's my baby niece, yawning in her perambulator. We think it's great."
"Here's mine, old sport," said Lesbia, unpacking her treasure.
She handed it to her chum, who, to do her credit, perhaps did not realize it was a plate and not a film. Marion seized it so carelessly that it slid from her hand, fell upon the floor, and smashed in three pieces. For an instant there was a ghastly silence.
"Oh! Hard luck!" sympathized Calla.
Marion was stooping to pick up the fragments.
"I'm awfully sorry!" she apologized. "It can be pieced together though I'm sure. I'll take it to the Kodak shop and see what they can do with it. They'll probably stipple it up so that it doesn't show in the least."
In certain circumstances there is nothing more aggravating than too great optimism. To have your trials made light of, and to be told a thing will turn out all right when you are absolutely sure that such a happy ending is quite outside the bounds of all possibility, irritates rather than soothes.
"All right a hundred years hence perhaps, but all wrong now!" flared Lesbia. "It can't be mended, so don't talk humbug. You've smashed it, and it's done for. I wish to goodness I'd left it safely at home and never trusted it to you. Of all butter-fingered Handy Andies you're the biggest!"