The photographer had pulled a string. The photograph taken. I could see the machine still staggering from the shock.
"I think," said the photographer, pursing his lips in a pleased smile, "that I caught the features just in a moment of animation."
"So!" I said bitingly,—"features, eh? You didn't think I could animate them, I suppose? But let me see the picture."
"Oh, there's nothing to see yet," he said, "I have to develop the negative first. Come back on Saturday and I'll let you see a proof of it."
On Saturday I went back.
The photographer beckoned me in. I thought he seemed quieter and graver than before. I think, too, there was a certain pride in his manner.
He unfolded the proof of a large photograph, and we both looked at it in silence.
"Is it me?" I asked.
"Yes," he said quietly, "it is you," and we went on looking at it.
"The eyes," I said hesitatingly, "don't look very much like mine."