‘Besides which it is the part of the young to give way to their elders,’ says Miss Barry, striving to keep up her dignity, whilst dying with terror. The photographer and the great big thing over there with dingy velvet cloth over it have subdued her almost out of recognition. ‘Now, auntie, come on. He’s looking at you.’ ‘He’ is the photographer, who has now, indeed, turned a lack-lustre eye on Miss Barry. ‘We are rather pressed for time,’ says he in a lugubrious tone. ‘Which lady wishes to be taken first?’ ‘Answer him, auntie,’ says Susan. ‘What impertinence, hurrying us like this!’ says Miss Barry. She has recovered something of her old courage now, though still frightened, and turns a freezing eye upon the photographer, who is so accustomed to all sorts of eyes that it fails to affect him in any way. ‘Really, auntie, you ought to have yours taken first,’ says Dominick seriously, ‘and as soon as possible. There’s murder in that man’s eye. Don’t incense him further.’ The photographer is now standing in an adamantine attitude, but his eye, entreating, cries: ‘Come on, come on!’ But no one stirs. ‘A most insolent creature,’ says Miss Barry, who has unfortunately taken a dislike to him. ‘Look at him; one would think we had to have our pictures taken by law rather than by choice. Susan, did you ever see so villainous a countenance? No, my dear, I—I really feel—I couldn’t have my picture sent to your uncle if taken by an assassin like that.’ She holds back. ‘Nonsense, Miss Barry!’ says Crosby gaily. ‘You have too much spirit to be daunted by a mere cast of countenance. And we—we have no spirit at all—so we depend upon you to give us a lead.’ ‘I assure you, Mr. Crosby, had it been any other man but this.... However, I submit.’ Whereupon, with much outward dignity and many inward quakings, she approaches the chair before the camera and seats herself upon it. ‘A little more this way, please, ma’am,’ says the photographer. ‘Which way?’ asks Miss Barry, in a distinctly aggressive voice. ‘If you would pose yourself a little more like this,’ and the photographer throws himself into a sentimental attitude. ‘Mercy! what ails the man?’ says Miss Barry, turning to Crosby. ‘Do you, my dear Mr. Crosby—do you think the wretched being has been imbibing too freely?’ ‘No, no, not at all,’ says Crosby reassuringly. ‘You must sit like this’—coming to the photographer’s help with a will—‘just a little bit round here, d’ye see, so as to make a good picture. That will give a better effect afterwards; and of course he is anxious to make as good a photograph of you as he can.’ At this Miss Barry condescends to move a little in the way directed. She clutches hold of Susan, however, during the placing of her, and whispers thrillingly: ‘I don’t believe in him, Susan. Look at his eye. It squints! Could a squinter give one a good photograph?’