picture of that man! Is n’t he handsome! He must be an Italian; and his little boy, too.”
“A Portuguese, I’m more inclined to think,” said her father, eying the man critically. “Come, Julia and Nora. We will wait for you there by the railing. But I feel bound to join the rest of the party.”
“Very well,” answered Brenda; “I ’ll be only a minute.” Brenda’s camera was one of the smaller hand cameras for instantaneous work, and almost before he saw what she was doing, she had taken the good-looking Portuguese with his basket of merchandise, and his little boy leaning on his arm.
As she began to turn the spool to prepare a second plate, she walked away a few steps, wondering whether she would dare ask the man to turn around a little, to let the sun strike him more directly, so that she could be sure of a good picture. While she hesitated, the man himself came forward, and in very good English said, “I should be very happy to let you take another picture.”
So Brenda, rather overcome by this unusual willingness, stepped nearer to him, in order to get a larger picture. Still a third time she tried, after asking him to change his position to the better light; and she walked off, feeling that she really had accomplished something. The light was good; she had a new roll of film; and she had had what the scientific photographer would call an interesting subject.
“Come, Brenda, come, Brenda,” called her father; the boat is here.”
