imagine anything less hardy entering into matrimony with so formidable a woman. Yes, big and keen-eyed and strong and, of course, silent. He would have had to be that, married to someone as voluble as Miss Yorke.
'Oh, yes?' was all she found herself able to say. It was not the best of observations, but it seemed to encourage her companion to proceed.
'I saw him this afternoon.'
This time Sally's response was even briefer. She said 'Oh?'
'Yes,' said Leila Yorke, 'there he was. He looked just the same as he always did. Except,' she added, 'for a bald spot. I always told him his hair would go, if he didn't do daily hair-drill.'
Sally had no comment to make on the bald spot. She merely held her breath.
'Gave me a shock, seeing him suddenly like that.'
On the point of saying she didn't wonder, Sally checked herself. Silence, she felt, was best. There was something in all this a little reminiscent of a death-bed confession, and one does not interrupt death-bed confessions.
'Hadn't seen him for three years. He was still living with his mother then.'
Sally's interest deepened. So Joe had gone back to his mother, had he. This was, she knew, a common procedure with wives, but rarer with husbands. She found herself revising the mental picture she had made. A man like the Joe she had imagined would have taken his gun and gone off to the Rocky Mountains to shoot grizzly bears.
'That mother of his! Snakes!' said Miss Yorke unexpectedly.
'Snakes?' said Sally, surprised. She felt that a monosyllable would not break the spell, and she wanted to have this theme developed. She was convinced that the word had not been a mere exclamation. A strongly moved woman might ejaculate 'Great Snakes!' but surely - not 'Snakes!' alone.
'She kept them,' explained Miss Yorke. 'She was in vaudeville - Herpina, the Snake Queen - and she used them in her act. When,' she added with some bitterness, 'she could get bookings, which wasn't often.' She sighed. 'Did I ever tell you about my married life, Sally?'
'No, never. I knew you had been married, of course.'
'You'd have liked Joe. Everybody did. I loved him. His trouble was, he was so weak. Just a rabbit who couldn't say "Bo!" to a goose.'
Sally knew that the number of rabbits capable of saying 'Bo!' to geese is very limited, but she did not point this out. She was too busy making further revisions in the mental portrait.
'So when his mother, one of the times when she was "resting", suggested that she should come and live with us, he hadn't the nerve to tell her she wasn't wanted and that the little woman would throw a fit if she set foot across the threshold. He just said, "Fine!" And as he hadn't the nerve to tell me what he'd done, the first inkling I got of what was happening was when I came home all tired out from a heavy day at the office - I was a sob sister then on one of the evening papers - and found her in my favourite chair, swigging tea and fondling her snakes. A nice homecoming that was, and so I told Joe when I got him alone. He had the gall to say that he had thought she would be such nice company for me when he was away on tour.'
'Was he an actor?'
'Of a sort. He never got a part in the West End, but he did all right in the provinces, and he was always going off to play juvenile leads in Wolverhampton and Peebles and places of that kind. So Mother and snakes dug themselves into the woodwork, and that,' said Miss Yorke, again unexpectedly, 'was how I got my start.'
Sally blinked.
'How do you mean?'
'Perfectly simple. Everyone who's on a paper is always going to do a novel when he gets time, and I had often thought of having a bash at one, because if you're a sob sister, you accumulate a whole lot of material. This was where I saw my opportunity of buckling down to it. Instead of spending my evenings listening to Mother saying how big she had gone at the Royal, Wigan, and how it was only jealousy in high places that had kept her from working her act in London, I shut myself up
'Oh, yes?' was all she found herself able to say. It was not the best of observations, but it seemed to encourage her companion to proceed.
'I saw him this afternoon.'
This time Sally's response was even briefer. She said 'Oh?'
'Yes,' said Leila Yorke, 'there he was. He looked just the same as he always did. Except,' she added, 'for a bald spot. I always told him his hair would go, if he didn't do daily hair-drill.'
Sally had no comment to make on the bald spot. She merely held her breath.
'Gave me a shock, seeing him suddenly like that.'
On the point of saying she didn't wonder, Sally checked herself. Silence, she felt, was best. There was something in all this a little reminiscent of a death-bed confession, and one does not interrupt death-bed confessions.
'Hadn't seen him for three years. He was still living with his mother then.'
Sally's interest deepened. So Joe had gone back to his mother, had he. This was, she knew, a common procedure with wives, but rarer with husbands. She found herself revising the mental picture she had made. A man like the Joe she had imagined would have taken his gun and gone off to the Rocky Mountains to shoot grizzly bears.
'That mother of his! Snakes!' said Miss Yorke unexpectedly.
'Snakes?' said Sally, surprised. She felt that a monosyllable would not break the spell, and she wanted to have this theme developed. She was convinced that the word had not been a mere exclamation. A strongly moved woman might ejaculate 'Great Snakes!' but surely - not 'Snakes!' alone.
'She kept them,' explained Miss Yorke. 'She was in vaudeville - Herpina, the Snake Queen - and she used them in her act. When,' she added with some bitterness, 'she could get bookings, which wasn't often.' She sighed. 'Did I ever tell you about my married life, Sally?'
'No, never. I knew you had been married, of course.'
'You'd have liked Joe. Everybody did. I loved him. His trouble was, he was so weak. Just a rabbit who couldn't say "Bo!" to a goose.'
Sally knew that the number of rabbits capable of saying 'Bo!' to geese is very limited, but she did not point this out. She was too busy making further revisions in the mental portrait.
'So when his mother, one of the times when she was "resting", suggested that she should come and live with us, he hadn't the nerve to tell her she wasn't wanted and that the little woman would throw a fit if she set foot across the threshold. He just said, "Fine!" And as he hadn't the nerve to tell me what he'd done, the first inkling I got of what was happening was when I came home all tired out from a heavy day at the office - I was a sob sister then on one of the evening papers - and found her in my favourite chair, swigging tea and fondling her snakes. A nice homecoming that was, and so I told Joe when I got him alone. He had the gall to say that he had thought she would be such nice company for me when he was away on tour.'
'Was he an actor?'
'Of a sort. He never got a part in the West End, but he did all right in the provinces, and he was always going off to play juvenile leads in Wolverhampton and Peebles and places of that kind. So Mother and snakes dug themselves into the woodwork, and that,' said Miss Yorke, again unexpectedly, 'was how I got my start.'
Sally blinked.
'How do you mean?'
'Perfectly simple. Everyone who's on a paper is always going to do a novel when he gets time, and I had often thought of having a bash at one, because if you're a sob sister, you accumulate a whole lot of material. This was where I saw my opportunity of buckling down to it. Instead of spending my evenings listening to Mother saying how big she had gone at the Royal, Wigan, and how it was only jealousy in high places that had kept her from working her act in London, I shut myself up
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