Floyd had arranged them, and Snippy sat on one step, with her arms outspread in a classic attitude, while the two girls stood demurely with clasped hands on either side, a step below. Floyd, above and behind, held out one hand with beneficent gesture, and in the other was a long pasteboard roll, which he used as a trumpet.
“It’s an allegorical group,” he announced, “of ‘Fame blessing a bunch of Tourists.’”
Entering into the spirit of the thing, Peter focussed his camera, and secured what afterward turned out to be a delightfully ludicrous picture.
“Now,” said Peter, in the tone he used when he had no intention of being contradicted, “I will take a picture of Patty alone.”
“All right,” said Flo, not caring, and she turned away to talk to Floyd Austin.
“Lean lightly against the balustrade,” said Peter, as Patty stood carelessly on the steps. She fell into the position he had suggested, and against the background of innumerable steps, above, below, and on either side, the girlish figure stood out in fair relief. The white serge frock, with its graceful long coat opening over a soft white blouse, was a becoming style to Patty, and suited well the scheme of the picture. Her soft, white, felt hat, turned back from her ripply, gold hair, and a filmy white Liberty scarf trailed from it, and fluttered over her shoulder. She was the embodiment of quiet, graceful, American girlhood, and the picturesque Roman surroundings accented her charm.
Peter Homer held his breath as he adjusted the camera.
“Don’t move,” he begged; “it’s perfect.”