“I have brought you a subject,” said Eliphalet. “I wish you to take this gentleman with his head thrust through the hole of that vile canvas of the shivering creature on the bathing-machine steps.”
“I protest,” began Cartwright, but Eliphalet talked him down.
“I shall want it enlarged to the size of the poster yonder, which it is destined to supplant. I shall placard it on every hoarding in the town. I shall——”
But the sentence was never completed, for from immediately outside came a sharp, wild scream. Through the windows of the studio they had a momentary glimpse of a pair of white shoes and stockings pointing towards Heaven for a fraction of time. Followed another shriller scream and a deep, resonant splash.
“Good ’eavens!” cried the photographer, rendered aitch-less by surprise. “That girl’s fallen in.”
By common consent they rushed out, and were confronted with a view of an upturned chair, a swinging chain, and in the water below, the flash of a white skirt and an outstretched hand.
“She’s drowning!” gasped Eliphalet, in genuine horror.
Then spoke Aloysius Cartwright, and his words tumbled over one another like the waters of a cataract:
“Here’s a chance, sir—a chance! You—you’ve slanged and vilified me all the morning for making a muddle of the rescue scene. Here’s the real thing! Here’s a chance to show me how to do it now!”
The walking-stick fell from Eliphalet’s hand and a fine colour flushed his cheek, as he said, articulating each word with biting emphasis: