“I don’t care about appearances; but mine is not in the least like,” Esther said severely. “I am sure no one could recognise it; I look seventy-eight at the very least.”
Robert flicked the paper across the table with a contemptuous “Bah!” and Max laughed in his easy, jolly manner, and said—
“Now I know how I shall look when my brain softens! I’m glad I’ve seen it; it will be a lesson to me to take things easily, and not over-study.”
“But look at the leaves of the ivy,” protested Oswald, in aggrieved self-vindication, “each one quite clear and distinct from the others; it’s really an uncommonly good plate. The detail is perfect. Look at that little bunch of flowers at the corner of the bed!” All in vain, however, did he point out the excellences of his work. The victims refused to look at the little bunch of flowers. Each one was occupied with staring at his own portrait; the Asplin family sighing and protesting, and Peggy placidly poking a pin through the eyes of the various sitters, and holding the paper to the light to view the effect. It was a little trying to the feelings of one who had taken immense pains over his work, and had given up a bicycle ride to sit for a whole afternoon in a chilly pantry, dabbling in cold water, and watching over the various processes. Oswald was ruffled, and showed it more plainly than was altogether courteous.
“I’m sorry you’re not pleased,” he said coldly. “I aim at truthfulness, you see, and that is what you don’t get from a professional photograph. It’s no good wasting time, simply to get oneself disliked. I’ll go in for Nature, and leave the portrait business to somebody else. The girls can try! They think they can do everything!”
Peggy looked at Esther, and Esther looked at Peggy. They did not say a word, but a flash of understanding passed from the brown eyes to the grey, which meant that they were on their mettle. They were not going to defend themselves, but henceforth it was a case of die or produce a good photograph, and so oblige Oswald to alter his tone of scornful incredulity.
For the next week the camera was the one engrossing thought. Every minute that could be spared was devoted to experiments, so that Fräulein complained that lessons were suffering in consequence. The hearts of her pupils were not in their work, she declared; it would be a good thing if a rule could be made that no more photographs were to be taken until the Christmas holidays. She looked very fierce and formidable as she spoke, but soft-hearted Mrs Asplin put in a plea for forgiveness.
“Ah, well, then, have patience for a few days longer,” she begged. “They are just children with a new toy; let them have as much of it as they will at first, and they will tire of their own accord, and settle down to work as well as ever. We can control their actions, but not their thoughts; and I’m afraid if I forbade photography at present, you would find them no more interested in lessons. I fancy there is something especially engrossing on hand this week, and we might as well let them have it out.”
Even Mrs Asplin, however, hardly realised the thoroughness with which the girls were setting to work to achieve their end. They held a committee meeting on Esther’s bed, sitting perched together in attitudes of inelegant comfort, with arms encircling their knees, and chins resting on the clasped hands, wherein it was proposed and seconded that Peggy, the artistic, should pose and take the sitters, while Esther, the accurate, should undertake the after-processes.
“And what am I to do?” cried Mellicent plaintively; and her elders smiled upon her with patronising encouragement.