[_He turns on his heel._ FIRST 'ARRY (_to Second_). I spoke civil enough to _'im_, didn't I? What did 'e want to go and git the fair 'ump about? SECOND 'ARRY. Oh, _I_ dunno. But you don't ketch _me_ comin' over to no more cathedrils, and wastin' time and money all for nuthink--that's all. [_They tramp out, feeling that their confidence has been imposed upon._ [Illustration: "What did 'e want to go and git the fair 'ump about?"] [Illustration] THE INSTANTANEOUS PROCESS; OR, FLUFF SITS FOR HIS PHOTOGRAPH. _A Photographer's Studio on the Seventh Floor. It is a warm afternoon._ MR. STIPPLER, _Photographic Artist, is discovered alone._ MR. STIPPLER (_to himself_). No appointments while this weather lasts, thank goodness! I shall be able to get ahead with those negatives now. (_Sharp whistle from speaking-tube, to which he goes._) Well? VOICE OF LADY ASSISTANT (_in shop below_). Lady just brought her dog in; wants to know if she can have it taken now. MR. STIP. (_to himself_). Oh, dash the dog and the lady too! THE VOICE. No, only the _dog_, the lady says. MR. STIP. (_confused_). Eh? Oh, exactly. Ask the lady to have the goodness to--ah--step up. (_He opens the studio door, and awaits the arrival of his client; interval, at the end of which sounds as of a female in distress about halfway down are distinctly audible._) She's _stepping_ up. (_Another interval. The head of a breathless_ ELDERLY LADY _emerges from the gloom._) This way, Madam. ELDERLY LADY (_entering and sinking into the first plush chair_). Oh, _dear_ me, I thought I should _never_ get to the top! Now _why_ can't you photographers have your studios on the ground floor? So _much_ more convenient! MR. STIP. No doubt, Madam, no doubt. But there is--ah--a prejudice in the profession in favah of the roof; possibly the light is considered somewhat superiah. I thought I understood there was--ah--a dog? The E. L. Oh, he'll be here presently. I think he saw something in one of the rooms on the way up that took his fancy, or very likely he's resting on one of the landing mats,--such an _intelligent_ dog! I'll call him. Fluffy, Fluffy, come along, my pet, nearly up now! Mustn't keep his missis waiting for him. (_A very long pause: presently a small rough-haired terrier lounges into the studio with an air of proprietorship_.) That's the dog; he's so small, he can't take _very_ long to do, _can_ he? MR. STIP. The--ah--precise size of the animal does not signify, Madam; we do it by an instantaneous process. The only question is the precise pose you would prefer. I presume the dog is a good--ah--rattah? The E. L. Really, I've no idea. But he's _very_ clever at killing bluebottles; he _will_ smash them on the window-panes. MR. STIP. (_without interest_). I see, Madam. We have a speciality for our combination backgrounds, and you might like to have him represented on a country common, in the act of watching a hole in a bank. The E. L. (_impressed_). For bluebottles?