Alice Sit-By-The-Fire
One would like to peep covertly into Amy's diary (octavo, with the word 'Amy' in gold letters wandering across the soft brown leather covers, as if it was a long word and, in Amy's opinion, rather a dear). To take such a liberty, and allow the reader to look over our shoulders, as they often invite you to do in novels (which, however, are much more coquettish things than plays) would be very helpful to us; we should learn at once what sort of girl Amy is, and why to-day finds her washing her hair. We should also get proof or otherwise, that we are interpreting her aright; for it is our desire not to record our feelings about Amy, but merely Amy's feelings about herself; not to tell what we think happened, but what Amy thought happened. The book, to be sure, is padlocked, but we happen to know where it is kept. (In the lower drawer of that hand-painted escritoire.) Sometimes in the night Amy, waking up, wonders whether she did lock her diary, and steals downstairs in white to make sure. On these occasions she undoubtedly lingers among the pages, re-reading the peculiarly delightful bit she wrote yesterday; so we could peep over her shoulder, while the reader peeps over ours. Then why don't we do it? Is it because this would be a form of eavesdropping, and that we cannot be sure our hands are clean enough to turn the pages of a young girl's thoughts? It cannot be that, because the novelists do it.
Between her placid brows a vindictive little frown blackened suddenly.
"That's why it wasn't specially convenient, Mr. Barton--to have you
ride with me this afternoon," she affirmed. "That's why it wasn't
specially convenient to--to have you struck by lightning this
afternoon!" Tragically, with one small brown hand, she pointed toward
the great water-soaked mess of magazines that surrounded her. "You
see," she mourned, "I've been saving them up all summer--to cut
out--to-day! And now?--Now--? We're sailing for Melbourne Saturday!"
she added conclusively.
"Well--really!" stammered Barton. "Well--truly!--Well, of all--damned
things! Why--what do you want me to do? Apologize to you for having
been struck by lightning?" His voice was fairly riotous with
astonishment and indignation. Then quite unexpectedly one side of his
mouth began to twist upward in the faintest perceptible sort of a real
grin.
"When you smile like that you're--quite pleasant," murmured little Eve
Edgarton.
"Is that so?" grinned Barton. "Well, it wouldn't hurt you to smile
just a tiny bit now and then!"
"Wouldn't it?" said little Eve Edgarton. Thoughtfully for a moment,
with her scissors poised high in the air, she seemed to be considering
the suggestion. Then quite abruptly again she resumed her task of
One would like to peep covertly into Amy's diary (octavo, with the word 'Amy' in gold letters wandering across the soft brown leather covers, as if it was a long word and, in Amy's opinion, rather a dear). To take such a liberty, and allow the reader to look over our shoulders, as they often invite you to do in novels (which, however, are much more coquettish things than plays) would be very helpful to us; we should learn at once what sort of girl Amy is, and why to-day finds her washing her hair. We should also get proof or otherwise, that we are interpreting her aright; for it is our desire not to record our feelings about Amy, but merely Amy's feelings about herself; not to tell what we think happened, but what Amy thought happened. The book, to be sure, is padlocked, but we happen to know where it is kept. (In the lower drawer of that hand-painted escritoire.) Sometimes in the night Amy, waking up, wonders whether she did lock her diary, and steals downstairs in white to make sure. On these occasions she undoubtedly lingers among the pages, re-reading the peculiarly delightful bit she wrote yesterday; so we could peep over her shoulder, while the reader peeps over ours. Then why don't we do it? Is it because this would be a form of eavesdropping, and that we cannot be sure our hands are clean enough to turn the pages of a young girl's thoughts? It cannot be that, because the novelists do it.