“No, but I guess it’s a good one.”
“A menagerie lion running round the world once in every twenty-four hours. I think it’s an absolutely perfect idea.”
“I guess that’s good enough to stop on.”
“You off Winchester?”
In the breaking of the group Dr. von Heber came near with his smile. Dr. Hurd was noisily stretching himself, laughing and coughing. No one was listening. They were quite alone among their friends, his friends, Canada. This has been a charming ending to a very lovely day he said quietly. Miriam beamed and was silent. Did you see the afterglow, she asked humbly. His smile reappeared. He took in what she said, but beamed because they were talking. She tried to beat back her words, but they were on her lips and she was already moving away when she spoke. “A fine … fuliginous … pink wasn’t it?”
“Where is the harm child, in your sitting up at a piano, even behind a curtain; in a large room in Gower Street, I can’t imagine why you say Gower Street; playing, with the soft pedal either down or up, the kind of music that you play so beautifully? Can you see her difficulty Jan?”
“Not even with the most powerful of microscopes.”
Lolling on the windowsill of their lives to glance at a passing show. … The blessed damosel looked out. Leaning, heavy on the golden balcony. She knew why not. Heavy blossoming weight, weighed down with her heavy hair, the sky blossoming in it, facing, just able to face without sinking, the rose-gold world, blossoming under her eyes.
Thin hard fingers of women chattering and tweaking. … They go up sideways, witches on broomsticks, and chatter angrily in the distance. They cannot stop the sound of the silent crimson blossoming roses.
“I don’t approve of séances.”
“Have you ever been to one?”
“No; but I know I don’t. It was something about the woman when she asked me.”
“That is a personal prejudice.”
“It is not a prejudice; how can it be pre after I have seen her?”
“Séances are wrong; because you have taken a dislike to Madame Devine.”
“It can’t be right to make half a guinea an hour so easily. And she said a guinea for occasional public performances.” That’s all; they know now. I had made up my mind. I wanted them to see me tempted and refusing for conscience sake.
“Good Lord; you’d be a millionaire in no time; why not take it until you are a millionaire and then if you don’t like it, chuck it?”
“I should like it all right, my part.”
“Well surely that is all that concerns you. You have nothing whatever to do with what goes on on the other side of the curtain. I think if you would like the job you are a fool to hesitate, don’t you Jan?”
“A fool there was and he made his prayer, yes I think it is foolish to refuse such an admirable offer.”
“A rag and a bone and a hank of hair; that just describes Madame Devine.” That’s not true; smooth fat thinness with dark filmy cruel clothes that last; having supper afterwards; but it would be true in a magazine; a weird medium; the grocer’s wife with second sight was fat and ordinary; a simple woman. Peter, the rough fisherman.
“Now you are being unchristian.”
“I’m not. I love the rag and bone and hank of hair type. Sallow. Like Mrs. Pat. … The ingénue. Sitting in a corner dressed in white, reading a book. A fat pink face. You can imagine her at forty.”
“Now you are being both morbid and improper.”
“I’m not morbid. Am I, Jan?”
“No I do not call you morbid. I call Gracie Harter-Jones morbid.”
“Who is she?”
“We met her at Mrs. Mackinley’s. She says she is perfectly miserable unless she is in a morbid state. She’s written a book called ‘The Purple Shawl of Ceremony.’ ”
“She must be awfully clever.”
“She’s mad. She revels in being mad. Like ‘the Sun shivered. Earth from its darkest basements rocked and quivered.’ ”
“Oh go I said and see the swans harping upon the rooftops in the corn. Where is the grey felt hat I saw go down, wrinkled and old to meet the lily-leaf, where where my child the little stick that crushed the wild infernal apple of the pit where where the pearl. Snarling he cried I will not have you bless the tropics sitting in a sulky row nor fling your banners o’er the stately wave; I heard shrill minstrelsies … that’s all awfully bad; but you can go on forever.”
“I couldn’t. I don’t know how you do it. I think it’s awfully clever. Jan and I roared over your Madeleine Francis Barry letter.”
“You can go on for days.”
“Barry-paroding.”
“You must not wait, nor think of words. If you are in the mood they come more quickly than you could speak or even think; you follow them and the whole effect entertains you. There’s something in it. You never know what is coming and you swing about, as long as you keep the rhythm, all over the world. It refreshes you. Sometimes there are the most beautiful things. And you see all the things so vividly.”
“She’s not morbid; she’s mad.”
“I’m neither morbid nor mad. It’s a splendid way of amusing yourself; better than imagining the chairs in front of you at a concert quietly collapsing.” They were scarcely listening. Both of them were depending on each other to listen and answer.
“Do you still go to Ruscino’s every night Miriam?”
“With the Spaniard? How is the Spaniard?”
“He’s eaten up with dizizz.”
“With what?”
“That’s what Miss Scott says.”
“How does she know?”
“All the doctors are prescribing for him.”
“Did they tell her?”
“I don’t know. She just said it suddenly. Like she says things. The doctors are all awfully fond of him.”
“Why are they fond of him?”
“He is extraordinary. He has given up his poster work and does lightning silhouettes, outlines of heads, at five shillings each at some gardens somewhere. Sometimes he makes five pounds an evening at it.”
“So you don’t go to Ruscino’s every evening?”
“He had a few weeks of being awfully
