Voice of Lady Assistant (in shop below). Lady just brought her dog in; wants to know if she can have it taken now.
Mr. Stip. (to himself). Oh, dash the dog and the lady too!
The Voice. No, only the dog, the lady says.
Mr. Stip. (confused). Eh? Oh, exactly. Ask the lady to have the goodness to—ah—step up. (He opens the studio door, and awaits the arrival of his client; interval, at the end of which sounds as of a female in distress about halfway down are distinctly audible.) She's stepping up. (Another interval. The head of a breathless Elderly Lady emerges from the gloom.) This way, Madam.
Elderly Lady (entering and sinking into the first plush chair). Oh, dear me, I thought I should never get to the top! Now why can't you photographers have your studios on the ground floor? So much more convenient!
Mr. Stip. No doubt, Madam, no doubt. But there is—ah—a prejudice in the profession in favah of the roof; possibly the light is considered somewhat superiah. I thought I understood there was—ah—a dog?
The E. L. Oh, he'll be here presently. I think he saw something in one of the rooms on the way up that took his fancy, or very likely he's resting on one of the landing mats,—such an intelligent dog! I'll call him. Fluffy, Fluffy, come along, my pet, nearly up now! Mustn't keep his missis waiting for him. (A very long pause: presently a small rough-haired terrier lounges into the studio with an air of proprietorship.) That's the dog; he's so small, he can't take very long to do, can he?
Mr. Stip. The—ah—precise size of the animal does not signify, Madam; we do it by an instantaneous process. The only question is the precise pose you would prefer. I presume the dog is a good—ah—rattah?
The E. L. Really, I've no idea. But he's very clever at killing bluebottles; he will smash them on the window-panes.
Mr. Stip. (without interest). I see, Madam. We have a speciality for our combination backgrounds, and you might like to have him represented on a country common, in the act of watching a hole in a bank.