‘If you would pose yourself a little more like this,’ and the photographer throws himself into a sentimental attitude.
‘Mercy! what ails the man?’ says Miss Barry, turning to Crosby. ‘Do you, my dear Mr. Crosby—do you think the wretched being has been imbibing too freely?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ says Crosby reassuringly. ‘You must sit like this’—coming to the photographer’s help with a will—‘just a little bit round here, d’ye see, so as to make a good picture. That will give a better effect afterwards; and of course he is anxious to make as good a photograph of you as he can.’
At this Miss Barry condescends to move a little in the way directed. She clutches hold of Susan, however, during the placing of her, and whispers thrillingly:
‘I don’t believe in him, Susan. Look at his eye. It squints! Could a squinter give one a good photograph?’
‘Now, madam!’ says the camera man, in a dying tone. He has heard nothing, but is annoyed in a dejected fashion by the delay. ‘If you are quite ready.’
‘Are you?’ retorts Miss Barry.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He comes forward to rearrange her draperies and herself, her short colloquy with Susan having been sufficiently lively to disturb the recent pose. He pulls out her gown, then steps back to further study her, and finally takes her head between his hands, with a view to putting that into the right position also.
If the poor man had only known the consequences of this rash act, he would, perhaps, rather have given up his profession than have committed it.
‘How dare you, sir!’ cries Miss Barry, pushing him back, and making frightful passes in the air as a defence against another attack of his upon her maiden cheek.