“All I want, gentlemen, is your authority to publish them.”
“On no account whatever,” said Harry, emphatically.
“I certainly agree with my nephew there,” added the merchant.
“James,” said Mr Goodall to the servant who came in answer to the bell, “see that some refreshment is sent up into the dining-room for this gentleman.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait one minute, Mr Photographer, while I take another glance at your photos. Yes, Harry, there you are, as plain as a pike-staff, in the water, lifting up a lady, who looks more dead than alive, into a boat. She has golden hair—dear, dear—and some distance from her is a man. Surely I know that face. Who is he, photographer?”
“He was said to be the lady’s intended, sir.”
“The deuce he was; he doesn’t look as if he were worthy of her. I’m glad to see my nephew occupies the post of honour.”
“It was a splendid act on the part of Mr Harry Goodall, but the gent who is holding down the boat to balance it whilst the lady is being lifted in, doesn’t show up to great advantage.”
“You don’t happen to know his name?” again asked Mr Goodall.