"They" made a picturesque group, slowly mounting the steps, a mother with babe in arms, a shawl thrown over her head, a half-grown girl in a faded pink gingham, and a little boy in a shabby velveteen suit and felt hat with a feather over his curls.
"The boy is probably an artist's model, dressed for effect. I am not sure about the others, but I can make them stand for you."
"Oh! Please!" Whereupon Marion stepped up to the woman, spoke a few words in Italian, and lo, they at once grouped themselves picturesquely in a spot where the sun fell in just the right way for a photograph. Irma took her place, snapped her camera, turned the key, took a second snap, in case anything should go wrong with the first and murmured, "Grazie, grazie," one of her few Italian words.
"Niente, niente, signorina," said the girl, who seemed to be the spokesman of the party, looking inquiringly at Marion.
Then almost instantly Marion dropped a small piece of silver in her hand.
"That's the way to get them to stand," he said laughing; "generally the smallest copper will fetch them."
"But you gave more."