‘What impertinence, hurrying us like this!’ says Miss Barry. She has recovered something of her old courage now, though still frightened, and turns a freezing eye upon the photographer, who is so accustomed to all sorts of eyes that it fails to affect him in any way.
‘Really, auntie, you ought to have yours taken first,’ says Dominick seriously, ‘and as soon as possible. There’s murder in that man’s eye. Don’t incense him further.’
The photographer is now standing in an adamantine attitude, but his eye, entreating, cries: ‘Come on, come on!’
But no one stirs.
‘A most insolent creature,’ says Miss Barry, who has unfortunately taken a dislike to him. ‘Look at him; one would think we had to have our pictures taken by law rather than by choice. Susan, did you ever see so villainous a countenance? No, my dear, I—I really feel—I couldn’t have my picture sent to your uncle if taken by an assassin like that.’ She holds back.
‘Nonsense, Miss Barry!’ says Crosby gaily. ‘You have too much spirit to be daunted by a mere cast of countenance. And we—we have no spirit at all—so we depend upon you to give us a lead.’
‘I assure you, Mr. Crosby, had it been any other man but this.... However, I submit.’
Whereupon, with much outward dignity and many inward quakings, she approaches the chair before the camera and seats herself upon it.
‘A little more this way, please, ma’am,’ says the photographer.
‘Which way?’ asks Miss Barry, in a distinctly aggressive voice.