"So I was," I say, turning very red, but still looking him well in the face; "it was you I meant."
"And the lady?"
"Look at this photograph," I say, quickly; "is it not pretty?" In my hurry I have laid my finger down on a fat baby taken à la fig-leaf, so precipitately shift it, and indicate a couple of Luttrell lovers, who look even more foolish than they feel.
"Very," says Mr. Vasher, with emphasis. "But where is the gooseberry?"
"I wonder," I say, raising my voice a little, that I may talk my colour down, "why plain people have their photographs taken so much oftener than handsome ones? It is such a rare thing to find a pretty face in an album. Do you think those people know how ugly they are?"
We are looking at a man whose eyes, already well rolled by nature, have evidently acquired a distinct and supererogatory roll by long practice; he looks as if a smart rap on the back of his head would send them into his lap.
"No," says Paul, "for the plainest people always think themselves the handsomest. Have you ever had yours taken?"
"Once, at Pimpernel; it was a horrid experience, and I never wish to have another like it."
"What did he do?" asks Paul. "Did he, like the little fat photographer in Punch, say, 'Look at me, miss, and don't smile?'"
"No, but he did worse; he wished me to smile, only he would not let me do it my own way—he regulated it. When I had got up a moderate grin, he would say, 'A little more, miss!' but on trying to oblige him, I showed a little of my teeth, which was strictly forbidden. Then, when I had nailed a painful smile to my countenance, and at his command made an arch grimace with my eyes, he took the cap off, and it was a horrible thing to feel my
