(The Party go out, with the exception of the two 'Arries, who linger, expectantly, and cough in embarrassment.) Was there anything you wished to know?
First 'Arry. Well, Mister, it's on'y – er – 'aven't you got some old carving or other 'ere of a rather – well, funny kind – sorter thing you on'y show to gentlemen, if you know what I mean?
The Verger (austerely). There's nothing in this Cathedral for gentlemen o' your sort, and I'm surprised at your expecting of it.
First 'Arry (to Second). I spoke civil enough to 'im, didn't I? What did 'e want to go and git the fair 'ump about?
Second 'Arry. Oh, I dunno. But you don't ketch me comin' over to no more cathedrils, and wastin' time and money all for nuthink – that's all.
THE INSTANTANEOUS PROCESS;
A Photographer's Studio on the Seventh Floor. It is a warm afternoon. Mr. Stippler, Photographic Artist, is discovered alone.
Mr. Stippler (to himself). No appointments while this weather lasts, thank goodness! I shall be able to get ahead with those negatives now. (Sharp whistle from speaking-tube, to which he goes.) Well?
Voice of Lady Assistant (in shop below). Lady just brought her dog in; wants to know if she can have it taken now.
Mr. Stip. (to himself). Oh, dash the dog and the lady too!
The Voice. No, only the dog, the lady says.
Mr. Stip. (confused). Eh? Oh, exactly. Ask the lady to have the goodness to – ah – step up. (He opens the studio door, and awaits the arrival of his client; interval, at the end of which sounds as of a female in distress about halfway down are distinctly audible.) She's stepping up. (Another interval. The head of a breathless Elderly Lady emerges from the gloom.) This way, Madam.
Elderly Lady (entering and sinking into the first plush chair). Oh, dear me, I thought I should never get to the top! Now why can't you photographers have your studios on the ground floor? So much more convenient!
Mr. Stip. No doubt, Madam, no doubt. But there is – ah – a prejudice in the profession in favah of the roof; possibly the light is considered somewhat superiah. I thought I understood there was – ah – a dog?
The E. L. Oh, he'll be here presently. I think he saw something in one of the rooms on the way up that took his fancy, or very likely he's resting on one of the landing mats, – such an intelligent dog! I'll call him. Fluffy, Fluffy, come along, my pet, nearly up now! Mustn't keep his missis waiting for him. (A very long pause: presently a small rough-haired terrier lounges into the studio with an air of proprietorship.) That's the dog; he's so small, he can't take very long to do, can he?
Mr. Stip. The – ah – precise size of the animal does not signify, Madam; we do it by an instantaneous process. The only question is the precise pose you would prefer. I presume the dog is a good – ah – rattah?
The E. L. Really, I've no idea. But he's very clever at killing bluebottles; he will smash them on the window-panes.
Mr. Stip. (without interest). I see, Madam. We have a speciality for our combination backgrounds, and you might like to have him represented on a country common, in the act of watching a hole in a bank.
The E. L. (impressed). For bluebottles?
Mr. Stip. For – ah – rats. (By way of concession.) Or bluebottles, of course, if you prefer it.
The E. L. I think I would rather have something more characteristic. He has such a pretty way of lying on his back with all his paws sticking straight up in the air. I never saw any other dog do it.
Mr. Stip. Precisely. But I doubt whether that particulah pose would be effective – in a photograph.
The E. L. You think not? Where has he got to, now? Oh, do just look at him going round, examining everything! He quite understands what he's wanted to do; you've no idea what a clever dog he is!
Mr. Stip. Ray-ally? How would it do to have him on a rock in the middle of a salmon stream?
The E. L. It would make me so uncomfortable to see it; he has a perfect horror of wetting his little feet!
Mr. Stip. In that case, no doubt – Then what do you say to posing him on an ornamental pedestal? We could introduce a Yorkshire moor, or a view of Canterbury Cathedral, as a background.
The E. L. A pedestal seems so suggestive of a cemetery, doesn't it?
Mr. Stip. Then we must try some other position. (He resigns himself to the commonplace.) Can the dog – ah – sit up?
The E. L. Bee-yutifully! Fluffy, come and show how nicely you can sit up!
Fluff (to himself). Show off for this fellow? Who pretends he's got rats – and hasn't! Not if I know it!
The E. L. (delighted). There, that's the attitude I told you of. But perhaps it would come out rather too leggy?
Mr. Stip. It is – ah – open to that objection, certainly, Madam. Perhaps we had better take him on a chair sitting up. (Fluff is, with infinite trouble, prevailed upon to mount an arm-chair, from which he growls savagely whenever Mr. Stippler approaches.) You will probably be more successful with him than I, Madam.
The E. L. I could make him sit up in a moment, if I had any of his biscuits with me. But I forgot to bring them.
Mr. Stip. There is a confectionah next door. We could send out a lad for some biscuits. About how much would you requiah – a quartah of a pound? He goes to the speaking tube.
The E. L. He won't eat all those; he's a most abstemious dog. But they must be sweet, tell them. (Delay. Arrival of the biscuits. The Elderly Lady holds one up, and Fluff leaps, barking frantically, until he succeeds in snatching it; a man[oe]uvre which he repeats with each successive biscuit.) Do you know, I'm afraid he really mustn't have any more – biscuits always excite him so. Suppose you take him lying on the chair, much as he is now? (Mr. Stippler attempts to place the dog's paws, and is snapped at.) Oh, do be careful!
Mr. Stip. (heroically). Oh, it's of no consequence, Madam. I am – ah —accustomed to it.
The E. L. Oh, yes; but he isn't, you know; so please be very gentle with him! And could you get him a little water first? I'm sure he's thirsty. (Mr. Stippler brings water in a developing dish, which Fluff empties promptly.) Now he'll be as good– !
Mr. Stip. (after wiping Fluff's chin and arranging his legs). If we can only keep him like that for one second.
The E. L. But he ought to have his ears pricked. (Mr. Stippler makes weird noises behind the camera, resembling demon cats in torture; Fluff regards him with calm contempt.) Oh, and his hair is all in his eyes, and they're his best feature!
Mr. Stip. I have not discovered his eyes at present, Madam; but he appears to have excellent – ah —teeth.
The E. L. Hasn't he! Now, couldn't you catch him like that?
Mr. Stip. (to himself). He's more likely to catch me like that! (Aloud; as he retreats under a hanging canopy.) I think we shall get a good one of him as he is. (Focussing.) Yes, that will do very nicely. (He puts in the plate, and prepares to release the shutter, whereupon Fluff deliberately rises and presents his tail to the camera.) I presume you do not desiah a back view of the dog, Madam!
The