Stiansen’s courtyard is a narrow oblong, and the sun beats down upon it bright and hot. We had come at a fortunate moment, it seemed, for Cavallius was just about to photograph fat Barbara who works for Madam Pirk.
Barbara sat stiffly upright on a chair. Her dress was so tight that it looked ready to burst open any minute. Her big, red hands were crossed as if they were tied together at the wrists. Cavallius was arranging the screw she should have at the back of her neck to hold her head still.
“Sh, sh!” I whispered. “Keep perfectly quiet so that he will not notice us.” Massa and I scarcely stirred, up there at the loft window.
“Will you sit for a full face or for a profile?” Cavallius asked. He talked in a slow formal way that corresponded well with his dignified bearing.
“What’s that?” asked Barbara turning herself hastily towards him.
“There, there,” said Cavallius, soothingly. “Will you sit sideways or straight?”
“Straight,” said Barbara. “Talk decent, you, when you talk to decent folk!”
Cavallius was humming a little to himself and took hold of her face to place it in the right position.
He had scarcely put one of his small stumpy fingers against Barbara’s fat cheek before she pushed her big working-woman’s fist with such force against Cavallius’ chest that he tumbled backward. It was an awfully comical sight. Both Massa and I forgot ourselves and shrieked with laughter. Cavallius threw an astonished glance up at the loft window where we stood, but he said nothing. Moreover, he did not lose his air of dignity.
“Are you out of your mind, woman?” asked Cavallius.