“Then please tell it to us,” Norma urged.
“Just after I finished college,” Lieutenant Warren began, “a friend secured a position for me as a teacher of English in a high-class school for British girls, in India.
“The school was located close to a fort, very much like Fort Des Moines, only much larger. Ten thousand British troops were stationed there.
“On my way over I had taken many pictures and wanted to get them developed and printed. I was told that a very good German photographer had a shop facing the army parade ground, so I hunted him up.
“‘Oh, no! I couldn’t do your pictures!’ he exclaimed when I suggested it. ‘I am far too busy. Besides, amateurs, they never take good pictures. Never! Especially young women! Their pictures are always horrible!’
“I didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at him and then at his studio. It was a remarkable studio. Every inch of the wall was covered with pictures—remarkable pictures, too. All the leading British officers were there, and rich rulers of India, too. And there were pictures of wild animals in the jungle, elephants, tigers, and water buffalo.
“Did you do all these?” I asked.
“‘Yes, and many, many more. You see, Miss, I am really very famous as a photographer.’
“He was a remarkable man. His hair was white, and stood straight up. And his face was lined but round and smooth—unnatural, as if it might have been made up for a stage performance.
“‘And you won’t do my pictures?’ I asked him.