Dolly coloured still more deeply. "Oh, you know Bertie Winslow?" she
said. "Well, he's interested in photography--and--and also in _me_.
And he's invented a process, which isn't of the slightest practical
use, he says; but its peculiarity is, that it reveals textures. At
least, that's what Bertie calls it. It makes things come out so. And
he gave me some plates of his own for my kodak--half-a-dozen or more,
and--I took Aunt Amelia with them."
"I still fail to see," I murmured, looking at her comically.
"Oh, Uncle Seymour," Dolly cried. "How blind you men are!
If Aunt Amelia knew she would never forgive me. Why, you _must_
understand. The--the rouge, you know, and the pearl powder!"
"Oh, it comes out, then, in the photograph?" I inquired.
"Comes out! I should _think_ so! It's like little black spots all
over auntie's face. _such_ a guy as she looks in it!"
"And Colonel Clay is in them too?"
"Yes; I took them when he and auntie were talking together, without
either of them noticing. And Bertie developed them. I've three of
David Granton. Three beauties; _most_ successful."
"Any other character?" I asked, seeing business ahead.
Dolly hung back, still redder. "Well, the rest are with Aunt
Isabel," she answered, after a struggle.
"My dear child," I replied, hiding my feelings as a husband, "I will
be brave.
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