“Oh, yes, I have,” said the blue-eyed girl, with a shudder. “I once knew an awfully nice man, who turned out to be an amateur photographer. He took two hundred and seventy-five pictures of me one summer, and I used to know just who my enemies were. They would pretend that they recognized me in them all!”
“That’s nothing,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I once appeared as Cinderella at a charity entertainment, and an amateur photographer took a picture of me in costume. My foot was thrust forward, and oh, girls, it looked the size of a pumpkin. And the photographer actually took credit to himself because the face was an excellent likeness!”
“I was once photographed by an amateur,” said the brown-eyed blonde; “he said my picture was his masterpiece. I always keep it on my dressing table during Lent,” she added.
“I once knew an amateur photographer quite well,” said the girl with classic profile, “but for each photograph he took of me I made one of him!”
“With the result—” said the president.
“That he gladly bartered his collection for mine. Somehow, we haven’t been very good friends since. I often think things might have turned out very differently if he hadn’t bought that camera;” and she sighed, softly.
“Well, girls,” said the president, “I am afraid that we must adjourn, though I had hoped we might find time for a social session after the day’s work was concluded. However, I promised both Tom and the dressmaker that I’d meet them at five o’clock. She won’t wait, and he will; so I—”
“But why not make him go to the dressmaker’s with you,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“Because I want to tell him just what I think of his behavior—smoking in the drawing-room, just because I happened to be out. If he once heard Madame contradict me in the way she does, I could never hope to produce any impression on him again.”
Emily and Dorothy walked home in silence, and the former noticed, with alarm, that Dorothy did not attempt to protect her skirts from the mud. When they reached her door, she turned and said: