Buckthorn,
who dimpled like a girl over them. They discussed the show, some of the backstage
goings-on, whether the summer was going to continue to be as hot as it was now, and
Mrs. Buckthorn held forth at length on Queen Alexandra, for whom she had enormous
admiration.
There was Eton Mess for dessert, and Jack thought that Katie might perish on the spot
from pleasure over the sweet. When they were done, Mrs. Buckthorn set to clearing
the remains back to the kitchen, and Lionel led the way to a peculiar back parlor
that shared the back part of the ground floor with the kitchen.
The one delightful thing about this overshadowed house—particularly
this
summer, which was proving to be unnaturally hot—was that because it was in near-perpetual
shade, it remained deliciously cool while the rest of Brighton baked. The back parlor
had exceptionally large windows, which Lionel had made to be able to open completely,
with gauze curtains fastened over them to keep out the dust and flies while allowing
in the breeze. There was also a French-style door.
The garden, as overgrown as it was, held the cool as well. There were two trees, the
enormous rose-bush, vines of some sort that rambled all over everything, and between
the shaggy bits of lawn, the remains of a little gravel path that led to a birdbath
that Mrs. Buckthorn kept filled. Jack wondered what the more prosperous neighbors
thought of the pocket wilderness on the other side of their garden walls. Well, the
brick and stone walls were pretty high; probably they couldn’t see anything but the
trees and shaggy rosebush.
If they know, they are probably having quiet furies about it.
Of course, if they knew their neighbor was in the theater, they would probably be
fulminating over it every Sunday dinner!
Lionel also had ceiling fans of the sort that were found in Indian bungalows, but
rather than being powered by a small native boy, these were set in motion by an ingenious
clockwork that Mrs. Buckthorn wound up every morning. Lionel tripped the mechanism
as they entered, and the flat fans began lazily swaying back and forth with the mechanism
ticking pleasantly away.
Everything about the parlor was light and cool; the wallpaper was a pattern of twining
green acanthus vines on white, the furnishings were all of white wickerwork with cotton
cushions that matched the paper, the tables of metal—more twining acanthus vines—with
glass tops. The table nearest the window had been set up with cards and four chairs,
but Lionel didn’t immediately repair to it.
“Now, until this moment, Katie,” Lionel said carefully, as he lowered himself onto
a padded wicker settee, “We have let your skill speak for you. But as I have invited
you into my house, and into my trust, I would very much like it if you would reciprocate
by giving us your trust. Would you do us the great favor of telling us just where,
exactly, you come from and where you learned your dancing and acrobatics. Hmm?”
Katie hesitated a moment, and her face went very still. Jack could imagine her mind
racing, and he couldn’t blame her for her hesitation. If she was running from something,
she probably had plenty of reasons to be wary.
Lionel had used that “there, there,” sort of soothing voice, that a parent would use
to assure a child that it was perfectly all right to tell everything. Into the silence
of hesitation, Jack put in his own words.
“Really, Miss Kate, you’ve seen how much the act
needs
you. You needn’t worry that Lionel is going to run you off; we just want to know
a bit more about you. It doesn’t matter where you come from, not really. You could
be a little Hottentot, or a Hindoo beggar, and it would be all the same to us. What
matters is that you be honest with us, you see? Show people can’t be too nice about
pointing fingers; plenty of people who come to see us think we live lives of terrible
immorality—and
who dimpled like a girl over them. They discussed the show, some of the backstage
goings-on, whether the summer was going to continue to be as hot as it was now, and
Mrs. Buckthorn held forth at length on Queen Alexandra, for whom she had enormous
admiration.
There was Eton Mess for dessert, and Jack thought that Katie might perish on the spot
from pleasure over the sweet. When they were done, Mrs. Buckthorn set to clearing
the remains back to the kitchen, and Lionel led the way to a peculiar back parlor
that shared the back part of the ground floor with the kitchen.
The one delightful thing about this overshadowed house—particularly
this
summer, which was proving to be unnaturally hot—was that because it was in near-perpetual
shade, it remained deliciously cool while the rest of Brighton baked. The back parlor
had exceptionally large windows, which Lionel had made to be able to open completely,
with gauze curtains fastened over them to keep out the dust and flies while allowing
in the breeze. There was also a French-style door.
The garden, as overgrown as it was, held the cool as well. There were two trees, the
enormous rose-bush, vines of some sort that rambled all over everything, and between
the shaggy bits of lawn, the remains of a little gravel path that led to a birdbath
that Mrs. Buckthorn kept filled. Jack wondered what the more prosperous neighbors
thought of the pocket wilderness on the other side of their garden walls. Well, the
brick and stone walls were pretty high; probably they couldn’t see anything but the
trees and shaggy rosebush.
If they know, they are probably having quiet furies about it.
Of course, if they knew their neighbor was in the theater, they would probably be
fulminating over it every Sunday dinner!
Lionel also had ceiling fans of the sort that were found in Indian bungalows, but
rather than being powered by a small native boy, these were set in motion by an ingenious
clockwork that Mrs. Buckthorn wound up every morning. Lionel tripped the mechanism
as they entered, and the flat fans began lazily swaying back and forth with the mechanism
ticking pleasantly away.
Everything about the parlor was light and cool; the wallpaper was a pattern of twining
green acanthus vines on white, the furnishings were all of white wickerwork with cotton
cushions that matched the paper, the tables of metal—more twining acanthus vines—with
glass tops. The table nearest the window had been set up with cards and four chairs,
but Lionel didn’t immediately repair to it.
“Now, until this moment, Katie,” Lionel said carefully, as he lowered himself onto
a padded wicker settee, “We have let your skill speak for you. But as I have invited
you into my house, and into my trust, I would very much like it if you would reciprocate
by giving us your trust. Would you do us the great favor of telling us just where,
exactly, you come from and where you learned your dancing and acrobatics. Hmm?”
Katie hesitated a moment, and her face went very still. Jack could imagine her mind
racing, and he couldn’t blame her for her hesitation. If she was running from something,
she probably had plenty of reasons to be wary.
Lionel had used that “there, there,” sort of soothing voice, that a parent would use
to assure a child that it was perfectly all right to tell everything. Into the silence
of hesitation, Jack put in his own words.
“Really, Miss Kate, you’ve seen how much the act
needs
you. You needn’t worry that Lionel is going to run you off; we just want to know
a bit more about you. It doesn’t matter where you come from, not really. You could
be a little Hottentot, or a Hindoo beggar, and it would be all the same to us. What
matters is that you be honest with us, you see? Show people can’t be too nice about
pointing fingers; plenty of people who come to see us think we live lives of terrible
immorality—and
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