over there.”
Belle didn’t disparage the fact that Mrs.
Richmond pointed with her forefinger at the statue to which she
referred, as she had pointed to the one she thought resembled
Belle. Belle was beginning to come to terms with the fact that the
manners of her childhood did not prevail in the heathen North, and
that ladies weren’t considered ungenteel if they descended to
finger-pointing. Such unrefined gestures as finger-pointing and
speaking loudly were not considered rude up here.
Belle sighed as a momentary pang of
loneliness assailed her. Looking around at the crowds inside the
Women’s Department, she told herself she was assuredly not without companions. That they were alien to her
very heart and soul shouldn’t be a consideration. She’d made a
sensible decision, and had best get used to it.
She consoled herself with the knowledge that
she could speak to her family, figuratively, that very night, in
the solitude of her bedroom on the twelfth floor of the brand-new
and magnificent Congress Hotel. Plus which, she’d taken the
precaution of bringing with her on this trip to the Windy City
several letters her family had sent to her before she’d left New
York. Belle was sure rereading those epistles would make her feel
more the thing.
If only Mr. Asher’s proposed photographs
didn’t loom so large in her mind, she was sure she’d feel quite
grand in fact.
“I can’t wait for dinner,” said Amalie from
the comfort of Belle’s arms. “I want to see Mr. Asher again. I like
him lots.”
If Belle didn’t know the child to be
innocent of evil intent, she might just have dropped her.
Chapter Four
Win passed an enjoyable afternoon with Mr.
Richmond and Garrett, although he hoped none of the fair directors
ever found out that he’d abandoned his booth to pursue personal
business. Since they’d named him official photographer of the
Columbian Exposition, they kept a sharper eye on him than they did
other concessionaires. He had faith in his ability to talk himself
out of any detectival questionings on the part of the directors,
however, so he didn’t worry over much.
Mr. Richmond was as stuffy and
self-satisfied as most men of his age and position in life and,
therefore, he bored Win a lot. But the day was clear and not too
windy, Garrett was an amiable and interested lad, and Win expected
to see Miss Belle Monroe at dinner that night.
Not to mention the fact that his
anticipation at being able to produce a truly spectacular piece of
art seemed to be within his grasp. Life was grand, and Win intended
to enjoy it all, even if he had to put up with boring businessmen
from time to time. It was the boring businessmen of the world who
had all the money, after all, and Win intended to finagle as much
of the green stuff out of them as he could.
The fair itself offered guaranteed interest
and entertainment. Even if a fellow didn’t bother to visit the
exhibits—a supposition too ridiculous to be contemplated—merely
watching the sights and spectators would keep him entertained for
hours on end. The very smell of the fair thrilled him. Win didn’t
think he was being fanciful when he told himself he could detect
the scent of excitement itself in the air.
“One of these days, you’ll have to sample a
hamburger, Garrett,” he told the little boy who, while he
considered himself too old to hold his father’s hand, was more than
willing to stay close to his adults. Win suspected he was a trifle
too overwhelmed by the teeming masses and the unique sights and
sounds to run off by himself.
Garrett tore his gaze away from the Arab
merchant who was dressed to the hilt in his native costume—Win
noted with amusement that Garrett seemed especially intrigued by
the huge curved scimitar sheathed at the man’s belt—and glanced up
at Win. Win grinned down at him, pleased to know his assumption
that the mention of food could distract a young boy’s attention
from anything had been proved
Belle didn’t disparage the fact that Mrs.
Richmond pointed with her forefinger at the statue to which she
referred, as she had pointed to the one she thought resembled
Belle. Belle was beginning to come to terms with the fact that the
manners of her childhood did not prevail in the heathen North, and
that ladies weren’t considered ungenteel if they descended to
finger-pointing. Such unrefined gestures as finger-pointing and
speaking loudly were not considered rude up here.
Belle sighed as a momentary pang of
loneliness assailed her. Looking around at the crowds inside the
Women’s Department, she told herself she was assuredly not without companions. That they were alien to her
very heart and soul shouldn’t be a consideration. She’d made a
sensible decision, and had best get used to it.
She consoled herself with the knowledge that
she could speak to her family, figuratively, that very night, in
the solitude of her bedroom on the twelfth floor of the brand-new
and magnificent Congress Hotel. Plus which, she’d taken the
precaution of bringing with her on this trip to the Windy City
several letters her family had sent to her before she’d left New
York. Belle was sure rereading those epistles would make her feel
more the thing.
If only Mr. Asher’s proposed photographs
didn’t loom so large in her mind, she was sure she’d feel quite
grand in fact.
“I can’t wait for dinner,” said Amalie from
the comfort of Belle’s arms. “I want to see Mr. Asher again. I like
him lots.”
If Belle didn’t know the child to be
innocent of evil intent, she might just have dropped her.
Chapter Four
Win passed an enjoyable afternoon with Mr.
Richmond and Garrett, although he hoped none of the fair directors
ever found out that he’d abandoned his booth to pursue personal
business. Since they’d named him official photographer of the
Columbian Exposition, they kept a sharper eye on him than they did
other concessionaires. He had faith in his ability to talk himself
out of any detectival questionings on the part of the directors,
however, so he didn’t worry over much.
Mr. Richmond was as stuffy and
self-satisfied as most men of his age and position in life and,
therefore, he bored Win a lot. But the day was clear and not too
windy, Garrett was an amiable and interested lad, and Win expected
to see Miss Belle Monroe at dinner that night.
Not to mention the fact that his
anticipation at being able to produce a truly spectacular piece of
art seemed to be within his grasp. Life was grand, and Win intended
to enjoy it all, even if he had to put up with boring businessmen
from time to time. It was the boring businessmen of the world who
had all the money, after all, and Win intended to finagle as much
of the green stuff out of them as he could.
The fair itself offered guaranteed interest
and entertainment. Even if a fellow didn’t bother to visit the
exhibits—a supposition too ridiculous to be contemplated—merely
watching the sights and spectators would keep him entertained for
hours on end. The very smell of the fair thrilled him. Win didn’t
think he was being fanciful when he told himself he could detect
the scent of excitement itself in the air.
“One of these days, you’ll have to sample a
hamburger, Garrett,” he told the little boy who, while he
considered himself too old to hold his father’s hand, was more than
willing to stay close to his adults. Win suspected he was a trifle
too overwhelmed by the teeming masses and the unique sights and
sounds to run off by himself.
Garrett tore his gaze away from the Arab
merchant who was dressed to the hilt in his native costume—Win
noted with amusement that Garrett seemed especially intrigued by
the huge curved scimitar sheathed at the man’s belt—and glanced up
at Win. Win grinned down at him, pleased to know his assumption
that the mention of food could distract a young boy’s attention
from anything had been proved
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