Even his room at school had possessed that man-made neatness which
one associates with sailor's cabins and the cells of monks. The
camp-bed was trimly made, a dressing-gown lay across a canvas chair,
a shaving mug hung from the centre pole--there was not so much as a
hairpin anywhere.
John crossed thoughtfully to the folding stand which stood with its
portable reading lamp beside the bed. There was one unusual thing
there, a photograph. Benis, as his friend knew, was an expert
amateur photographer--but he never perched his photographs upon
stands. This one must be an exception, and exceptions are
illuminating.
It was still quite light inside the tent and the doctor could see
the picture clearly. It was an extraordinarily good one, quite in
the professor's happiest style. Composition, lighting, timing, all
were perfect. But it is doubtful if John Rogers noticed any of these
excellencies. He was absorbed at once and utterly in the personality
of the person photographed. This was a girl, bending over a still
pool. The pose was one of perfectly arrested grace and the face
which was lifted, as if at the approach of someone, looked directly
out of the picture and into Roger's eyes. It was the most living
picture he had ever seen. The lips were parted as if for speech,
there was a smile behind the widely opened eyes. And both face and
form were beautiful.
The doctor straightened up with a sharply drawn breath. It seemed
that something had happened.
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