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Alice marched up to her, blazing with anger and indignation. She was not, at that moment, the gentle Alice, as everybody called her, Alice-sit-by-the-fire, equable and pacific, believing the best of people. She was the mother-woman eager to revenge the hurt that had been done to one who had all her love. "Ah," she said, "you're just in time for me to tell you what I think of you."
Joan began to sing as the car bowled up Fifth Avenue. Movement always made her sing, and the effect of things slipping behind her. But she stopped suddenly as an expression of Alice's flicked across her memory. "You'll catch Alice up, if you go straight back," she said. "Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire!
As a matter of fact, he didn't relish a night on the mountains any more than we did. After he had unintentionally frightened you almost into paralysis, what would my gentleman naturally do? Go out in the storm again? Not if I know the Alice-sit-by-the-fire type. He went up-stairs, well up near the roof, locked himself in and went to bed." "And he is there now?" "He is there now."
Palgrave controlled an ardent desire to touch with his lips that cool white shoulder from which the cloak had slipped. It was extraordinary how this mere girl inflamed him. Alice Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire! She seemed oddly like some other man's wife, these days. "Suppose I tell your man to drive out of the city beyond this rabble of bricks and mortar?" But Joan went on singing.
If Lady Alicia answered, I didn't have time to catch what she said. But that romp on Paddy has done me good. It shook the solemnity out of me. I've just decided that I'm not going to surrender to this middle-aged Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire stuff before my time. I'm going to refuse to grow old and poky.
It has always been a reproach against Henry Irving in some mouths that he neglected the modern English playwright; and of course the reproach included me to a certain extent. I was glad, then, to show that I could act in the new plays when Mr. Barrie wrote "Alice-sit-by-the-Fire" for me, and after some years' delay I was able to play in Mr. Bernard Shaw's "Captain Brassbound's Conversion."
Willard in The Professor's Love Story and Miss Barrymore in Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire could tell you, if you should ask them, that the former play was written by the author of the latter. How many people who remember vividly Sir Henry Irving's performance of The Story of Waterloo could tell you who wrote the little piece?
"Moreover, if she had been the person who peered at you over the gallery railing last night, don't you suppose, with her er belligerent disposition, she could have filled you as full of lead as a window weight?" "I do," I assented. "It wasn't Alice-sit-by-the-fire. I grant you that. Then who was it?" Hotchkiss felt certain that it had been Sullivan, but I was not so sure.
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