“Mr. Langer,” she said, after a moment, “a while back you kept some of my films.”
“To make some prints? They were very fine pictures. I gave you some enlargements.”
“Yes, that was generous of you.”
“That was nothing! Nothing!” The photographer’s chest swelled.
“You forgot to give me my films,” she suggested.
“That is true. Wait. I shall bring them.” He hurried to the back room.
“It’s no use trying to get the Spanish hairdresser’s picture today,” she told herself. “He’s in an explosive mood.”
The films she had asked for showed scenes—a cozy white, New England village, a boy bringing in wood, and a rare shot of a deer deep in the forest drinking from a pool at the foot of a tiny waterfall.
“Here they are.” He handed her an envelope.
“That’s fine. Now sell me three films and I’ll be off for another afternoon of shooting.”