“Now, stand just here. That’s right. No, not quite so stiff—and—no, not quite so hunched up, my little chap ... the hands resting carelessly ... one on the hip, I think ... just easy and natural ... that’s right ... but no, hardly. Relax the brow a little. And—ah, no ... not a grimace ... it would spoil a pretty picture ... the feet so ... and the head so ... the hair is slightly deranged ... that’s better.”
Let it stand to William’s eternal credit that he resisted the temptation to bite the photographer’s hand as it strayed among his short locks. At last he was posed and the photographer returned to the camera, but during his return William moved feet, hands, and head to an easier position. The photographer sighed.
“Ah, he’s moved. William’s moved. What a pity! We’ll have to begin all over again.”
He returned to William, and very patiently he rearranged William’s feet and hands and head.
“The toes turned out—not in, you see, Willie, and the hands so, and the head slightly on one side ... so, no, not right down on to the shoulder ... ah, that’s right ... that’s sweet, a very pretty picture.”
Ethel had retired hysterically behind a screen.
The photographer returned to his camera. William promptly composed his limbs more comfortably.
“Ah, what a pity! Willie’s moved again. We shall have to commence afresh.”
He returned to William and again put his unwilling head on one side, his hand upon his hip, and turned William’s stout boots at a graceful angle.
He returned. William was clinging doggedly to his pose. Anything to put an end to this torture.