“Now,” and the little man had put down his camera and was fussing like a modiste round a marchioness client whom she was fitting for a ball dress, “now, Mr. Silchester is set and ready. You, Mr. Mycroft, would you please just sit here, just behind him, on the balustrade. You see, my idea has about it something of what great artists call inevitability! The group casts itself—it’s a great piece of moving sculpture. Here is Mr. Silchester gazing with stretched-out arms at the glorious orb of day, his face flooded with its splendor, the very symbol of youth accepting life—life direct, warm, pulsing, torrential . . .” As he ran on like this I began to have a slight crick in my neck, and with one’s head thrown back my head began to throb a little and my eyes got quite dizzy with the sunlight. “Now, please, Mr. Silchester,” said the voice at my feet, “hold the pose for just a moment more while I place Mr. Mycroft,” and I heard our little artist in tableau vivant cooing to Mr. Mycroft. “And you, you see, are the wisdom of age, grey, wise, reflective, a perfect contrast, looking down into the deep waters of contemplation.”

Evidently Mr. Mycroft fell in with all this, even to having himself shifted until he was right behind me. I remember I was a little amused at the thought of Mr. Mycroft being actually put at my feet and, more, that there I stood with the leading role and with my back to him—he who was so used to being looked up to. Perhaps it was this thought that gave one more stretch to the tiring elastic of my patience. And in a moment more evidently Mr. Mycroft’s cooperation had been so full that Hess was content. The little fellow ran back down the steps of the other side of the bridge and I could just see from the corner of my rather swimming eyes that he had picked up his camera and was going to shoot us. But again he was taken with a fussy doubt. He ran back to us. We were still too far apart. He pushed us closer till my calves were actually against Mr. Mycroft’s shoulder blades.

“The composition is perfect in line and mass,” murmured Hess, “it is a spot of high-lighting color that’s wanted and right near the central interest, the upturned, sun-flooded face. Mr. Silchester, please don’t move an inch. I have the very thing here.”