“Of course,” Hess said, “this isn’t one of the pieces that go to museums. I always hoped that somehow I would make a picture of this place in which this cloak would play the leading part.”

All the while he said this he was holding out the lovely wrap for me to examine and as he finished he lightly flung the robe over my shoulder. “Oh, that’s it, that’s it!” he said, standing back with his head on one side like a bird. And looking down, I could not help thinking that I too was now like a bird and, to be truthful, a very handsome one.

So, without even casting a look behind me to see if Mr. Mycroft was watching and perhaps smiling, I followed Mr. Hess as he led the way, saying over his shoulder, heaped with the Polynesian robe, “I said right in the center and I mean to keep my word.” It was clear what he meant, for already he was mounted on the steps of the horseshoe-arch bridge and was going up them. Yes, I was to be the clou of the whole composition. When we reached the very apex of the arch, he held out the cloak to me, remarking, “You will find it hangs better if you’ll just slip off your coat.” I agreed and obeyed. I had already laid aside my cane. He was evidently quite an artist and was determined to pose me to best possible effect. He tried a number of poses and none seemed to him good enough. “I have it!” he finally clicked out. “Oh, the thing gets better and better! Why you aren’t in the movies . . . But of course after this . . . photogenic—why, it’s a mild word! I’m not asking for anything theatrical—only an accent, as it were—just the natural inevitable drama, one might say. The cloak itself sets the gesture. You see, the sun is high above and you are the center of this pool of flowers and birds. And so we would get perfect action, perfect face lighting, and perfect hang of drapery if you would just stretch up your arms to the sun and let the light pour on your face. You stand here, with your back to the garden—its high-priest offering all its life to the sun.”