“Seeing Rome, and hoping I’d see you, which, by good luck I did. What are you two babes in the wood doing here all alone?”
“Waiting for Flo and Snippy. They’re in that shop over there, buying photographs.”
“Um,—yes. Don’t you care for photographs?”
“I’ve bought all I can carry, already. I shall have to use them for wall paper, when I get home. It would take a Maine forest to frame them all.”
“I saw a room papered with photographs once,” said Peter. “They were divided by narrow mouldings, you know, but the pictures were pasted right on the walls.”
“Wasn’t it horrid?” asked Patty.
“Awful. Photographs in great quantities are awful, anyhow. But, while we’re on the subject, won’t you give me one of yourself? To hang on my memory chain, you know.”
“I’d ask for one too,” put in Floyd, “but I’ve seven of you already, Patty. Snapshots, but good ones.”
“I don’t see why he should have seven, and I none,” said Peter, in a plaintive voice.