‘Now, madam!’ says the camera man, in a dying tone. He has heard nothing, but is annoyed in a dejected fashion by the delay. ‘If you are quite ready.’ ‘Are you?’ retorts Miss Barry. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He comes forward to rearrange her draperies and herself, her short colloquy with Susan having been sufficiently lively to disturb the recent pose. He pulls out her gown, then steps back to further study her, and finally takes her head between his hands, with a view to putting that into the right position also. If the poor man had only known the consequences of this rash act, he would, perhaps, rather have given up his profession than have committed it. ‘How dare you, sir!’ cries Miss Barry, pushing him back, and making frightful passes in the air as a defence against another attack of his upon her maiden cheek. ‘Carew, where are you? Dominick! Susan, Susan, do you see how I have been outraged?’ ‘Dear auntie,’ says Susan, in a low tone, Carew and Dominick being incapacitated for service, ‘you mistake him. He only wants to arrange you for your picture. It is always done. Don’t you see?’ ‘I don’t,’ says Miss Barry stoutly. ‘I see only that you are all a silly set of children, who do not understand the iniquity of man! This creature—’ She points to the photographer, who has gone back in a melancholy way to his slides, and is pulling them in and out, by way of exercise, perhaps. ‘However, Susan, I’ll go through with it, insolent and depraved as this creature evidently is; coming from a huge metropolis like Dublin, he scarcely knows how to behave himself with decent people. I must request you to tell him, however, that I refuse—absolutely refuse—to let him caress my face again!’ Thus peace is restored with honour, for the time being. And the unlucky man who has been selected by an unkind Providence to transmit Miss Barry’s face to futurity, once again approaches her. ‘Now, ma’am, if you will kindly sit just so, and if you will look at this—a little more pleasantly, please’—holding up a photograph of Lord Rosebery that he has been carrying about to delight the Irish people. ‘Ah, that’s better; that earnest expression will—’ ‘Who’s that?’ cries Miss Barry, springing to her feet. ‘Is that the Radical miscreant who has taken old Gladstone’s place? God bless me, man! do you think I’m going to be pleasant when I look at him?’ The wretched photographer, now utterly dumfounded, casts a despairing glance at Crosby, who is certainly the oldest, and therefore probably the most sensible, of the rest. The noise of the feet of impatient customers in the passage outside is rendering the poor man miserable. Yet it is impossible to turn this terrible old woman out, when there are so many with her waiting to be taken, and to pay their money. ‘I assure you, sir, I thought that picture would please the lady. I’m only lately from England, and they told me—’