“That’s what she calls Dad’s prescriptions.”
“Oh, I hope they’re not ‘every four hours’ bottles!” cried Austin. “Do look, Max. Perhaps, by luck, they’re ‘at bed-time’ potions. I want you and Betty to be figures for me.”
“Got out the camera? My, what larks!”
The boys immediately set off at the best pace permitted by the baskets, Austin giving a hand with the altruistic burden. The girls followed, at Betty’s leisure.
“There’s no hurry about Dad’s things,” remarked Max, setting his load down by the roadside and dashing at the camera. Max could be enthusiastic with anybody. “What are you taking, old fellow? The lens doesn’t seem to be pointing anywhere.”
“It’s pointing at a pictorial gate, an impressionist foreground, half a group of poplars, and any amount of mist and cloud ‘thrown in’. Frances actually says my view will be dull!”
“Let’s look.”
Max accordingly popped under the cloth, and presently emerged with a somewhat puzzled and dejected appearance.
“I suppose it’s all right,” he remarked humbly to the owner of the camera; “though things do seem a little mixed in front.”
“Poor Max! He doesn’t appreciate the charms of impressionism,” said Frances, coming up arm in arm with the serene Betty.