“My face is jus’ like anyone else’s face,” he said indignantly. “I don’t know why you’re all laughing. There’s nothin’ funny about my face. I’ve never done anythin’ to it. It’s no different to other people’s. It doesn’t make me laugh.”
“No, dear,” said Mrs. Brown soothingly, “it’s very, nice—very nice, indeed. And I’m sure it will be a beautiful photograph.”
The proofs arrived next week. They were highly appreciated by William’s family. There were two positions. In one, William, in an attitude of intellectual contemplation, glowered at them from an artistic background; in the other, he stood stiffly with one hand on his hip, his toes (in spite of all) turned resolutely in, and glared ferociously and defiantly upon the world in general. Mrs. Brown was delighted. “I think it’s awfully nice,” she said, “and he looks so smart and clean.”
William, mystified by Robert’s and Ethel’s reception of them, carried them up to his room and studied them long and earnestly.
“Well, I can’t see wot’s funny about them,” he said at last, half indignantly and half mystified. “It doesn’t seem funny to me.”
“You’ll have to write a letter to your godmother, dear,” said Mrs. Brown, as Mrs. Adolphus Crane’s birthday drew near.
“Me?” said William bitterly. “I should think I’ve done enough for her.”
“No,” said Mrs. Brown firmly, “you must write a letter.”
“I dunno what to say to her.”
“Say whatever comes into your head.”