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"I saw a letter with an English postmark for you," she observed, examining the bottom of a piece of china that rested near her shoulder. "Did you get it?" "We want you to give us an opinion about it, Miss Fraenkel," said Bill, bringing out the letter and giving it to her. She accepted the packet in some uncertainty. "I!" she said, "give an opinion? I don't get it, I'm afraid."
" and lived happy ever after!" added Miss Fraenkel, with radiant unwinking hazel eyes. She went away after tea, to her pew in the gaunt wooden Episcopal Church in Chestnut Street, rapt in a felicitous dream of romanticism. It was nothing to her that Mr. Carville had poured diluted vitriol upon some women who clamoured for the vote, nothing that he had barely deigned to notice her existence.
Wederslen think, for example, that her surmise about the burnt aeroplane was grotesquely wrong! How little does Williams, when he brings us his water-colours, done in that fall-vacation at Bar Harbor, appreciate at its real value our etching of an aeroplane lying across an English hedgerow! Even Miss Fraenkel, I think, has no clear knowledge of Mrs.
Miss Fraenkel, however, overstepped the bounds of prudence when she implied something wrong. Her exact words, as far as I can remember, were, 'It is funny he writes from New York." "Does he?" said Bill. "So Miss Fraenkel says. So you see, your ... our unspoken thoughts were justified, to say the least.
You know...." Miss Fraenkel made a pause luminous with bright glances, "a picture of those two, in the café having a dinner; a real kissing picture. I'm sure she would look so sweet!" "Ah!" said Bill, "but what's the end of the story?" "Why sure!" faltered Miss Fraenkel. "They get get married! That's the end of every English story, isn't it?" Bill cackled from the kitchen, artlessly and shrill.
"Women don't have to be led into that sort of temptation. They take it in with their mother's milk." "You cynical old devil!" exclaimed Bill, indignantly. "Well, it's true," he defended himself stoutly. "I'll bet you a quarter Miss Fraenkel's already tried them and found them guilty." "Of what?" demanded Bill. "Oh, ask Miss Fraenkel," said he. "How should I know?"
"Surely! Oh, I should give anything to see his home. You've described it to me, so I know all about it. Gainsborough landscape, and red tiles on the cottages!" She clasped her hands. "I mean the man my cousin met," said Bill, gently. "Carville." "Oh, him!" Miss Fraenkel looked at each of us for an instant to catch some inkling of our behaviour.
Some days before I had been despatched to Chinatown for the express purpose of buying coloured tops, snakes and kites. Bill had made Indian suits for the boys, and Mac had returned from the stores with a coasting sled, and a small pair of roller skates. Miss Fraenkel was to have a copy of Spenser's Faery Queen bound by us in blue leather and stamped with an original design.
And so it came about that when we felt able to abandon Lexington Avenue, in favour of a purer air and water supply, Miss Fraenkel chanted the praises of her own Netley in the Garden State, and Bill, journeying thither to spy out the land, returned an hour late for dinner, and incoherent with horticultural details. It will be seen that though undoubtedly competent to criticize Ostrovsky or Mrs.
The Great Decorator has arranged us without regard for our individual merits or past intrinsic values, we are but points of colour in his immense and arbitrary arrangement. I was following up this thought, when the brass Canterbury Pilgrim that serves us for a knocker was vigorously sounded, and I sprang to open the door to Miss Fraenkel.
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