Lord Huntingtower quivers a little in anticipation, but then collapses in a little sigh of resignation:
-My dear Cyril, I cannot but await the commencement of your scheme with anything other than delectable trepidation. Yet I shall not assist you in your endeavour; I cannot be seen to have slighted Annesley - that aggrieved old witch Lady Temperance, there would be no end to it. Now Cyril, you are on the verge of making some tasteless jest of the marital bed, concerning how Temperance "comes before" The Tower - no need, Cyril, all here know that Lady Temperance Annesley is my wife. Still is, for that matter. We are estranged, shall we say. She detests me. But she remains high in the esteem of old Streynsham; they are very close, and I must keep up appearances in public. So I cannot join you in your complot and intrigue!
Besides, the streets are full of photographers these days. Everything exists to be made into a picture. An indelible, incriminating record of guilt. It is surely not at all possible to alter a photograph, as the images of our incredible war triumph over the Great Powers and the enduring sanctity of the Old Armistice attest. Ever since Leopold Verne popularised his infuriating strobolume, and made it far easier to load a camera than even a musket, the populace have become obsessed with photographing everyone and everything. I suspect we could have saved ourselves the trouble of conscription, the expense of all muniments and fortifications, had we but armed the common man with cameras and permitted them to tediously photograph the Enemy to death.
Gone now is the solace of Art. And I suspect your profession has become quite useless, Aloysius, no? What use poetry, in the emulous eye of that Gorgon, the camera? What use are your verses, when the pictures these days practically draw themselves? When for a half-farthing pentacle given to some boorish booth vendor of optical theatre in the street, one can purchase a view of such animated delight, (Cyril Darnay smirks a little in recognition) such transporting pleasures as to spurn the beauteous caresses of even this Odalisque herself... (Lord Huntingtower gestures suggestively to Beatrice Wentworth's photograph)
>>5682946 