"Do you not see it?" asked the man.

"Yes," said the fellow with him.

"It is incredible," said another.

"The resemblance is truly striking," said the second man.

"Please turn your profile towards us, and lift your chin, Miss Collins," said the first man.

I complied.

I was in a photographer's studio.

"A little higher, Miss Collins," said the first man.

I lifted my chin higher.

"You may change in here," had said the man earlier, indicating a small dressing room off the studio. I had been handed a pair of clogs, a white silk blouse and a pair of black shorts.

"No brassiere or panties," he had said.

I had looked at him.

"We want no lines from them," he said.

"Of course," I had said.

The shorts were quite short, and, even without the panties, at least a size too small. The blouse, too, even without the brassiere, was tight.

"Please tie up the blouse, in front," he said. "We want some midriff." I had complied.

"Higher," he had suggested.

I had complied.

I had then been, to my puzzlement, photographed several times, from the neck up, front view and profile, against a type of chart, on which appeared various graduated lines, presumably some type of calibrating or measuring device. The lines, as nearly as I could determine, however, correlated neither with inches nor centimeters.

"Now, please, step into the sand box," he had said.

I had then stepped onto the sand, in the wide, flat box, with the beach scene projected onto the large screen behind me. Then, for several minutes, the photographer moving about me, swiftly and professionally, sometimes almost intimately close, and giving me commands, the camera clicking, I had been posed in an incredible variety of positions.