“Samuel, you are a dear,” said Myra, looking at him lovingly.

“You see, I thought, Myra, you’d like to have some records of the place, because they’re so jolly to look back on, and—­er, I’m not quite sure how you work it, but I expect some of you know and—­er—­”

“Come on,” said Myra, “I’ll show you.”  She retired with Simpson to a secluded part of the loggia and helped him put the films in.

“Nothing can save us,” said Archie.  “We are going to be taken together in a group.  Simpson will send it to one of the picture papers, and we shall appear as ’Another Merry Little Party of Well-known Sun-seekers.  Names from left to right:  Blank, blank, Mr. Archibald Mannering, blank, blank.’  I’d better go and brush my hair.”

Simpson returned to us, nervous and fully charged with advice.

“Right, Myra, I see.  That’ll be all right.  Oh, look here, do you—­oh yes, I see.  Right.  Now then—­wait a bit—­oh yes, I’ve got it.  Now then, what shall we have first?  A group?”

“Take the house and the garden and the village,” said Thomas.  “You’ll see plenty of us afterwards.”

“The first one is bound to be a failure,” I pointed out.  “Rather let him fail at us, who are known to be beautiful, than at the garden, which has its reputation yet to make.  Afterwards, when he has got the knack, he will be able to do justice to the scenery.”

Archie joined us again, followed by the bull-dog.  We grouped ourselves picturesquely.

“That looks ripping,” said Simpson.  “Oh, look here, Myra, do you—­No, don’t come; you’ll spoil the picture.  I suppose you have to—­oh, it’s all right, I think I’ve got it.”

“I shan’t try to look handsome this time,” said Archie; “it’s not worth it.  I shall just put an ordinary blurred expression on.”

“Now, are you ready?  Don’t move.  Quite still, please; quite—­”

“It’s instantaneous, you know,” said Myra gently.

This so unnerved Simpson that he let the thing off without any further warning, before we had time to get our expressions natural.

“That was all right, Myra, wasn’t it?” he said proudly.

“I’m—­I’m afraid you had your hand over the lens, Samuel dear.”

“Our new photographic series:  ‘Palms of the Great.’  No. 1, Mr. S. Simpson’s,” murmured Archie.

“It wouldn’t have been a very good one anyhow,” I said encouragingly.  “It wasn’t typical.  Dahlia should have had an orange in her hand, and Myra might have been resting her cheek against a cactus.  Try it again, Simpson, and get a little more colour into it.”

He tried again and got a lot more colour into it.

“Strictly speaking,” said Myra sadly, “you ought to have got it on to a new film.”

Simpson looked in horror at the back of his camera, found that he had forgotten to turn the handle, apologized profusely, and wound up very gingerly till the number “2” approached.  “Now then,” he said, looking up ... and found himself alone.