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Updated: May 10, 2025
How many times did you go to see Marie Tempest in The Fencing Master, or Alice Nielsen in The Serenade? Was Virginia Earle in The Circus Girl the idol of your youth or was it Mabel Barrison in The Babes in Toyland? Theresa Vaughn in 1492, May Yohe in The Lady Slavey, Hilda Hollins in The Magic Kiss, or Nancy McIntosh in His Excellency?
"They might be only translucent," suggested Miss Barrison. "Or partially opaque," I ventured. "But it's a risky marriage not to be able to see what one's wife is about " "That is a silly reflection on women," said Miss Barrison, quietly. "Besides, a girl need not be transparent to conceal what she's doing."
Miss Barrison unwrapped the bottle of rosium oxide and loosened the cork. We examined this pearl-and-pink powder and shook it up so that it might run out quickly. Then Miss Barrison sat down, and presently became absorbed in a stenographic report of the proceedings up to date. When Miss Barrison finished her report she handed me the bundle of papers.
I carried the portable camping-oven into the cabin, connected the patent asbestos chimney-pipes, and lighted the fire. And in a few minutes Miss Barrison, sleeves rolled up and pink apron pinned under her chin, was busily engaged in rolling pie-crust, while Professor Farrago measured out spices and set the dried apples to soak.
"There are some concentrated egg tablets in the shanty," said Miss Barrison; but the idea was not attractive. "I refuse to fry a pill for breakfast," I said, sullenly, and set the coffee-pot on the coals. In spite of the dewy beauty of the morning, breakfast was not a cheerful function. Professor Farrago appeared, clad in sun-helmet and khaki.
"Exactly; so when I've trapped it I am going to spray it." He turned half humorously towards the stenographer: "I fancy you understood long before Mr. Gilland did." "I don't think so," she said, with a sidelong lifting of the heavy lashes; and I caught the color of her eyes for a second. "You see how Miss Barrison spares your feelings," observed Professor Farrago, dryly.
From that moment, whenever we were alone together, he made a target of me. I never had supposed him humorously vindictive; he was, and his apparently innocent mistakes almost turned my hair gray. But to Miss Barrison he was kind and courteous, and for a time over-serious.
"Good-morning," said a low voice from the door as I stood encouraging the camp-fire with splinter wood and dead palmetto fans. Fresh and sweet from her toilet as a dew-drenched rose, Miss Barrison stood there sniffing the morning air daintily, thoroughly. "Too much perfume," she said "too much like ylang-ylang in a department-store. Central Park smells sweeter on an April morning."
Then, very quietly, sinking her voice instinctively, as though the unseen might be at our very elbows listening, Miss Barrison recounted the curious adventure which had befallen the dog and the first batch of apple-pies. With visible and increasing excitement the professor listened until the very end.
"It wouldn't prevent me!" said the young man, quickly. "Nor me," mused Miss Barrison "if I were really in love." Meanwhile I had been very busy thinking about Professor Farrago, and, coming to an interesting theory, advanced it. "If," I began, "he marries one of those transparent ladies, what about the children?" "Some would be, no doubt, transparent," said Kensett.
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