At last a person described by himself as plain-spoken, and by other people as offensively rude, said that I had never really been as good-looking as that, with all possible allowances made, and any way he wanted a photograph and not a memorial card.  I took a firm stand, and said that if he wasn’t satisfied with that one he could go without altogether, and he said in the most insulting way that he supposed he should be himself again in time if he took a tonic.

A few more episodes of that sort eventually drove me to it.  I passed my viva-voce examination at the hands of the young lady at the desk, paid my fees, got my testamur, and was shown into the torture-chamber, where the head executioner was busy adjusting his racks and screws.

I was rather taken with the rustic seat that was standing on a white fur mat in front of a scene representing the Jungfrau, but he headed me off it.  If I liked the Jungfrau as a background I could have it, but not with the seat; that was for engaged couples only.  He recommended a pair of skis, or a bobsleigh; he could put a fine fall of snow into the negative.  But as I had arrayed myself in a black coat, with one of those white waistcoat slips, and a flowing tie with a pearl pin, I refused this offer, and we decided we wouldn’t have a background at all.

As the man who administered the laughing gas was out at lunch, I prepared to go through with it in cold blood, and seated myself in the operating chair in the most natural attitude I could assume—­something like the one I had taken under the crab-tree.  I thought I would show them that there wasn’t so much difference after all.  But it did not suit the head mechanic at all.  He looked at me with his head on one side, and then took hold of mine by the chin and the hair and gave it a twist.  I had never worn it at that angle in my life, and I knew it would put my collar all wrong; but I had to do what he told me.  He arranged my coat so that it should look as if it had been made to fit somebody else, and disposed my arms in such a way as to give the sleeves the appearance of trouser legs with rucks in them.  I felt almost more sorry for my tailor than for myself, but I shall send him one of the prints when I get them; it will be good for him.

We were now ready to tackle the expression.  I had chosen one that would have been suitable for a man with a fair No Trump hand, but with one suit not fully guarded, as I didn’t want to overdo it; but, judging from the inquisitor’s remarks about the graveside, I am quite ready to admit that it might not have come out like that.  I hastily dealt myself a hundred aces and a long suit of clubs, and he said that that was better, but I must put off the idea of the funeral altogether.  It was not until I had assumed the appearance of a reach-me-down Nut with a dislocated neck, being made love to by six chorus-girls at once, that he condescended to take a look at me through the peephole.  Then he ran up to me, gave my chin another hitch, pulled my neck another foot or two out of my collar, added a ruck or two to my sleeves, and said he liked the other side of my face better, after all.