“Mr. Robinson is out,” said she.
“I don’t believe there is a Mr. Robinson,” I replied.
She laughed gleefully at that and repeated that there was such a person, but he was out.
“And does he leave you to the responsibility of the entire premises?” I asked.
“Yes,” said she.
“What do you do if any one comes into the portrait gallery downstairs while you’re up here?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she replied confidently; “they don’t often come.”
I let her fix that abominable instrument of torture at the back of my neck. Her fingers tickled me as she did it, but I said nothing. I was trying in my mind to assess the value of this business of Mr. Robinson. It was no easy job. I had not got beyond single figures when she walked back to the camera.
I glanced up at the leaden sky.
“It’s rather dull,” said I; “what exposure are you going to give?”