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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Here is the dearest little dove, eating our lunch crumbs. He carried them out here to safety." Quietly the girls stole up to a pretty soft spot in the thicket, and there found a little pigeon enjoying the last crumbs of Cleo's cake.
Eva had said in Joe's ear one afternoon. "Is she friggin beautiful, or what?" "Friggin beautiful," Joe said. "Like her writing." "Jesus," Eva said. "It works that way sometimes," Joe said. "I've seen it in paintings. Beautiful people can do beautiful work; they aren't afraid of it; they're used to it." Eva looked at him. She was good-looking herself, although not in Cleo's league.
That the play itself was full of inanities was forgotten; but its title and Egyptian colour together with Cleo's personality had somehow got inter-blent and interwoven with the enterprise itself, making even its commercial and prosaic sides instinct with mystery and unreality. He seemed to have wandered into an Arabian Nights' tale.
"It was not Cleo's fault," she went on, speaking slowly, but distinctly "Cleo never missed. Oliver Leach took the hedge just behind us. It was wrong! He meant to kill me. I saw it in his face!" She shuddered violently, and her eyelids closed. "He was cruel cruel!" she murmured feebly "But I was too happy!"
And, of course, she was not the kind of woman to stay in so sordid and narrow a household with a penniless man, who was nothing to her beyond her husband she with her gorgeous demands upon life! However, he thought it right to assure Mr. Kettering that Cleo's accusations against him were entirely false and that, as regards his conduct towards her, no reproach could be made to him.
He had fallen on a place astonishingly different from what it had appeared to him, for he had been the victim of a mirage, through which the force of his impulse had taken him into underlying abysses. He went on to describe Cleo's failure and his own awakening; how they had gone to Dover, how Cleo had left him, and why he was remaining there now.
Though he had seen a little of the rehearsals, he had not yet acquired any notion of Cleo's abilities, for she had been busy directing and criticising, simply reading her part as a "fill-in." He had all along taken it for granted that she must be a great actress. At his most despondent moments he had never doubted that, simply because it had never occurred to him to doubt it.
"You have learned something." "Yes," sighed Cleo. "An' hit's a mighty good t'ing I saved de rest ob de fish t' cook in mah own way," murmured Alameda, as she served supper a little later. And then, amid laughter at Cleo's experiment, they all sat down in the dining tent, and as they ate, evening settled down over camp.
"You're not very encouraging Weasie. Just see how deep this hole is, and how it is being dug like a tunnel." Every one followed Cleo's plea for an investigation, and at each turn they seemed to come upon more toys and tools, such as little boys play with. "And here's another sign," called Helen. "On yellow paper, too." This brought the scouts to close attention.
Most of the novels and non-scholastic books were of a shoddy, sensational type. Here, then, he had evidently stumbled across the source of Cleo's early mental nourishment; this was the literature with which her nature had found affinity. In nearly every book he took down he came across passages underlined, with occasionally a note in the margin in her own handwriting.
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