“Why should you sit down in the snow?” inquired Austin sensibly. “I should say that, for choice, you’d rather stand up.”
“I could sit on my basket,” murmured Betty. But she allowed Austin to “place” her, as carefully as any handbook could desire, exactly against the middle of the gate, with Florry and Max on either hand.
“Aren’t we a bit stiff?” suggested Max mildly. “Mightn’t I sit on top of the gate, instead of standing in a row with the girls? Or, as Betty likes sitting, couldn’t she mount the gate?”
“Catch me!” cried Betty.
“I’d hold you on,” said Max accommodatingly.
“No, indeed!” said Austin severely; “Betty would block out my best clouds. And if you held her on, Max, I couldn’t take your eyes. I don’t fancy portraits when you can’t see the folks’ eyes.”
“I could turn my face to you,” said Max persuasively, with a lingering fondness for his bright idea.
Austin was immovable in his determination to arrange his friends in line, and to photograph all the eyes they could present to his camera.
Finally, after the usual agonized commands to his sitters, Austin reached the vital moment and removed the cap from his lens. He remained then in a state of frantic uncertainty as to when he should put it on again; and remained uncertain so long that, before he could settle the important point, the six eyes watching his changeful countenance and palpitating person began to twinkle, and Betty giggled outright.
“There!” said the photographer, with the calmness of despair, “that’s another plate done for!”