She was still weighing this question when she arrived at the studio at Granite Head.
As she entered the studio she found Carl Langer talking excitedly to an elderly fisherman’s wife. The woman’s face, bronzed by many winds and seamed by many a care, was, she thought, most attractive.
Carl Langer was saying in a harsh tone, “No, madam! I can not take your picture. I am too busy, and besides—just one print. Bah! That is not enough! I would lose money.”
“It is for my son.” The woman’s voice was low, pleading. “It is for my only son. He is a soldier fighting in Africa.”
“Soldier! Bah!” The photographer’s eyes bulged. “There are many million soldiers and most times they are drunk.”
This last Norma knew was not true. Her face flushed but she said never a word until the woman was gone. Then she said:
“You don’t know a picture when you see one!”
“How is that?” Carl Langer scowled.
“If you had seated that woman on a log, put a sea scene behind her, and given her a net to mend, you might have had a masterpiece.”
Carl Langer shot her a look but said never a word.