it as beautiful.”
“Dear sweet prim Miss Trowle, can it be that appearances to the contrary, we are harboring a romantic in our midst. I should have thought you would only approve of a sober prim little Hamlet spouting sensible emotions in well-measured iambic pentameters.”
“You do me a disservice, Lord Waterston. A reasonable person cannot expect Shakespeare to read like Pope, nor do I uniformly approve of the production myself. I have seen better Hamlets and I was quite disappointed in Ophelia.”
“You were disappointed in Ophelia? Why?”
“Miss Oliver was, of course, absolutely stunning, but I think Ophelia is better played as a fragile blonde rather than as a vibrant redhead. Miss Oliver is beautiful but somehow lacking in vulnerability. She is too much woman for Ophelia and not quite enough girl. I should like to see her draped on the barge in Antony and Cleopatra .”
Becka, who had been listening silently and feeling just a little excluded, saw an opening. “Uncle Charles, is that the Jeanette Oliver that John Coachman says...”
“Becka, I’m certain we are not interested in what John Coachman says,” her uncle interrupted.
Adela, believing that his lordship was being rude to the child added, “Becka, if John Coachman is acquainted with Miss Oliver we would all be interested. Miss Oliver is an actress of undoubted ability. She is quite talented as well as beautiful. I would like to meet her myself.”
Lord Waterston, who had a rather better idea of Miss Oliver’s talents than had either Miss Trowle or John Coachman, was sorely tempted to shock his listener and could not entirely smother the temptation.
“I can’t think how you, Miss Trowle, can regard as a legitimate professional a woman who night after night parades across a stage less than half-clothed.”
“In acting, your lordship, a state of dishabille is reflective more of the low tastes of the audience than of the talent, or lack thereof, of the actress,” Miss Trowle answered blithely as she ushered Becka out of the carriage and into the hall.
Becka still had not received an answer to her initial query, but knowing very well that she was being audaciously provoking, she continued, “But John Coachman says...”
“Silence,” Waterston boomed. “I am not in the least bit interested in what John Coachman says, brat.”
“Becka,” Adela interrupted, “I believe that it is time for bed. Say good night and thank you to your uncle.”
“Good night and thank you, Uncle Charles,” Becka said with the slightest of curtsies and a look of unholy mischief in her eyes. “Miss Oliver is very beautiful.” Then she ran up the stairs.
“Miss Trowle,” Waterston added, finding it difficult to refrain from chuckling, “I believe we have a precocious little brat on our hands. You really must monitor her exposures to John Coachman.”
“I don’t know that that is possible, sir. Surely it would be simpler to speak to John Coachman yourself and have him censor what he says in her presence.”
“On the contrary, it would not answer at all, Miss Trowle. John Coachman is an aged retainer who taught me how to handle a team when I was Rebecka’s age. I, least of all, can restrain him. I’m afraid he has always been determined to boast of all my exploits.”
Adela’s eyes lit up. “My apologies, sir, I had not realized that Miss Oliver was one of your exploits and my compliments on your taste.” Then, before he could manage a suitable response, she dropped into a deep curtsy. “Good night, my lord, and thank you for a lovely evening. Becka was right, you know, Miss Oliver is very beautiful.” Adela turned and ran up the stairs.
Waterston was strangely pleased to see that look of impish mischief on Miss Trowle’s pert little face. He grinned as he turned into his library to wait for the music. When, after half an hour, the music did not begin, he noticed that it was really quite late and he called for his hat and his cane and
“Dear sweet prim Miss Trowle, can it be that appearances to the contrary, we are harboring a romantic in our midst. I should have thought you would only approve of a sober prim little Hamlet spouting sensible emotions in well-measured iambic pentameters.”
“You do me a disservice, Lord Waterston. A reasonable person cannot expect Shakespeare to read like Pope, nor do I uniformly approve of the production myself. I have seen better Hamlets and I was quite disappointed in Ophelia.”
“You were disappointed in Ophelia? Why?”
“Miss Oliver was, of course, absolutely stunning, but I think Ophelia is better played as a fragile blonde rather than as a vibrant redhead. Miss Oliver is beautiful but somehow lacking in vulnerability. She is too much woman for Ophelia and not quite enough girl. I should like to see her draped on the barge in Antony and Cleopatra .”
Becka, who had been listening silently and feeling just a little excluded, saw an opening. “Uncle Charles, is that the Jeanette Oliver that John Coachman says...”
“Becka, I’m certain we are not interested in what John Coachman says,” her uncle interrupted.
Adela, believing that his lordship was being rude to the child added, “Becka, if John Coachman is acquainted with Miss Oliver we would all be interested. Miss Oliver is an actress of undoubted ability. She is quite talented as well as beautiful. I would like to meet her myself.”
Lord Waterston, who had a rather better idea of Miss Oliver’s talents than had either Miss Trowle or John Coachman, was sorely tempted to shock his listener and could not entirely smother the temptation.
“I can’t think how you, Miss Trowle, can regard as a legitimate professional a woman who night after night parades across a stage less than half-clothed.”
“In acting, your lordship, a state of dishabille is reflective more of the low tastes of the audience than of the talent, or lack thereof, of the actress,” Miss Trowle answered blithely as she ushered Becka out of the carriage and into the hall.
Becka still had not received an answer to her initial query, but knowing very well that she was being audaciously provoking, she continued, “But John Coachman says...”
“Silence,” Waterston boomed. “I am not in the least bit interested in what John Coachman says, brat.”
“Becka,” Adela interrupted, “I believe that it is time for bed. Say good night and thank you to your uncle.”
“Good night and thank you, Uncle Charles,” Becka said with the slightest of curtsies and a look of unholy mischief in her eyes. “Miss Oliver is very beautiful.” Then she ran up the stairs.
“Miss Trowle,” Waterston added, finding it difficult to refrain from chuckling, “I believe we have a precocious little brat on our hands. You really must monitor her exposures to John Coachman.”
“I don’t know that that is possible, sir. Surely it would be simpler to speak to John Coachman yourself and have him censor what he says in her presence.”
“On the contrary, it would not answer at all, Miss Trowle. John Coachman is an aged retainer who taught me how to handle a team when I was Rebecka’s age. I, least of all, can restrain him. I’m afraid he has always been determined to boast of all my exploits.”
Adela’s eyes lit up. “My apologies, sir, I had not realized that Miss Oliver was one of your exploits and my compliments on your taste.” Then, before he could manage a suitable response, she dropped into a deep curtsy. “Good night, my lord, and thank you for a lovely evening. Becka was right, you know, Miss Oliver is very beautiful.” Adela turned and ran up the stairs.
Waterston was strangely pleased to see that look of impish mischief on Miss Trowle’s pert little face. He grinned as he turned into his library to wait for the music. When, after half an hour, the music did not begin, he noticed that it was really quite late and he called for his hat and his cane and
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