things—to get the atmosphere, so to speak; not merely to catalogue furniture."
He was quoting from the prospectus of the new paper, and then cleared his throat for the utterance of a tremendous truth.
"Photography—is not—Art," he remarked.
The fantastic side of our colloquy began to strike me.
"After all," I thought to myself, "why shouldn't that girl have played at being a denizen of another sphere? She did it ever so much better than Callan. She did it too well, I suppose."
"The price is very decent," Callan chimed in. "I don't know how much per thousand, . . . but . . ."
I found myself reckoning, against my will as it were.
"You'll do it, I suppose?" he said.
I thought of my debts. . . . "Why, yes, I suppose so," I answered. "But who are the others that I am to provide with atmospheres?"
Callan shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, all sorts of prominent people—soldiers, statesmen, Mr. Churchill, the Foreign Minister, artists, preachers—all sorts of people."
[30]
