‘A lot of lies. Ah yes, that’s of course,’ says Crosby, interrupting him sympathetically. ‘But what they didn’t teach you was that there are two opinions, you know. You can show Lord Rosebery to the people who have not a shilling in the world, and not a grandfather amongst them; but I think you had better show Miss Barry a photograph of Lord Salisbury, and if you haven’t that, one of the Queen. She’s quite devoted to the Queen.’ ‘I wish I’d been told, sir,’ says the photographer, so wearily that Crosby decides on giving him a substantial tip for himself when the sittings are over. ‘Now, ma’am,’ says the photographer, returning to the charge with splendid courage, seeing Miss Barry has reseated herself in the chair, after prolonged persuasion from Carew and Susan. Betty and Dominick, it must be confessed, have behaved disgracefully. Retiring behind a huge screen, and there stifling their mirth in an extremely insufficient manner, gurgles and, indeed, gasps, have come from between its joints to the terrified Susan. ‘And now, ma’am, will you kindly turn a little more this way?’ The poor man’s voice has grown quite apologetic. ‘Ah, that’s better! Thank you, ma’am. And if I might pull out your dress? Yes, that’s all right. And your elbow, ma’am, please.’ ‘Good gracious! why can’t he stop,’ thinks poor Susan, who sees wrath growing again within Miss Barry’s eye. ‘It is just a little, a very little, too pointed. Ah, yes. There! And your foot, ma’am—under your dress, if you please.’ Here Miss Barry snorts audibly, and the photographer starts back; but hearing is not seeing, and he rashly regains his courage and rushes to his destruction. ‘That’s well, very well,’ says he, not being sufficiently acquainted with Miss Barry to note the signs of coming war upon her face; ‘and if you will now please shut your mouth—’ Miss Barry rises once more like a whirlwind. ‘Shut your own, sir!’ cries she, shaking her fist at him. There is one awful moment, a moment charged with electricity; then it is all over. The worst has come, there can be nothing more. Miss Barry is again pressed into her chair. The photographer, having come to the comforting conclusion that she is a confirmed lunatic, takes no more pains over her, refuses to adjust her robe, to put her face into position or revise her expression, and simply takes her as she is. The result is that he turns out the very best photograph he has taken for many a year. After this things go smooth enough, until at last even Betty—who has proved a troublesome customer, if a very charming one—declares herself satisfied. ‘No more, sir?’ says the photographer to Crosby, whom he has elected to address as being the principal member of the party. To speak to Miss Barry would have been beyond the poor man. ‘Oh yes, one more,’ says Crosby. CHAPTER XXXIV.