Theophilus North by Thornton Wilder Page A

give musical parties here. Have you heard of Padderooski, Mr. North? . . . He played here, and Ole Bull, the Norwegian violinist. And Madame Nellie Melba—have you heard of her? Very fine, she was. Those were lovely days. Just think of it now! It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
    â€œYou haven’t seen or heard anything that made you uncomfortable, have you, Mrs. Delafield?”
    â€œOh, no, sir—not a thing!”
    â€œWould you be willing to spend the night here?”
    â€œWell, sir, I’d rather not. I know that maybe it’s all foolishness, but we’re not always in control of our feelings, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œWhat do people think took place here?”
    â€œI don’t like to talk about it or think about it, sir. Some people say one thing and some people say another. I think it’s best to leave things as they are.”
    The readings continued. Miss Wyckoff seemed relieved that no intimation of a sinister nature came to our attention. We read on for the pleasure of reading, for the Wyckoffs were admirable letter writers. But all the time the idea of what was possible was growing in my head.
    I have told of the various aspirations that had successively absorbed me when I was a very young man. A journalist’s life was not among them. My father was a newspaper editor both before and after he was sent on consular missions to China. He brought a dedication to it that I was never able to share. To me it smacked too much of the manipulation of public opinion, however sincerely prompted. The idea that was developing in my head for the rehabilitation of Wyckoff House involved precisely that, but I didn’t know how to go about it.
    Chance opened the way to me.
    The account of my relation to Wyckoff House falls into two parts. The second part led me into the Eighth City—that of camp-followers and parasites to whom I had so close an affinity. It led me to Flora Deland.
    By the fifth week in Newport my schedule had begun to be exacting. The professional coach returned to the Casino and I was relieved of the second hour of instructing children, but all day I was busy with French or Latin or arithmetic in one house or another. I searched for somewhere to have lunch in as quiet a place as the town afforded. I found the Misses Laughlins’ Scottish Tea Room—where Diana Bell and Hilary Jones had done their courting—in the heart of the Ninth City. It was frequented by girls from offices, some schoolteachers of both sexes, some housewives “downtown shopping”—a subdued company. The food was simple, well-cooked, and cheap. I had noticed a strange apparition there and hoped to see it again—a tall woman sitting alone, dressed in what I took to be the height of fashion. One day she reappeared. She wore a hat resembling a nest on which an exotic bird was resting, and an elaborate dress of what I think used to be called “changeable satin,” blues and greens of a peacock’s feathers intermingling. Before eating it was necessary that she remove her gloves and raise her veil with gestures of apparently uncalculated grace. Zounds! What was this? As before, when she entered or rose to take her departure the room was filled with the rustle of a hundred petticoats. Not only what was she, but why should she visit our humble board?
    Her face was not strictly beautiful. Norms of feminine beauty change from century to century and sometimes oftener. Her face was long, thin, pale, and bony. You will later hear Henry Simmons describe it as “horsy.” It can be seen in Flemish and French paintings of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The kindest thing that could be said of it in 1926 was that it was “aristocratic,” a designation more apologetic than kind. What was sensational about her was what we lustful soldiers at Fort Adams used to call her “build,” her “altogether,” her