I just jumped into something else to retrieve myself. I can do
Carter's Du Barry to the Queen's taste, Maggie. That rotten voice
of hers, like Mother Douty's, but stronger and surer; that rocky
old face pretending to look young and beautiful inside that
talented red hair of hers; that whining "Denny! Denny!" she
squawks out every other minute. Oh, I can do Du Barry all right!

They thought I could, too, those black and white shadows out
there on the other side of the velvet curtains. But I cared less
for what they thought than for the fact that I had drowned that
sputtering hiss-ss-ss inside of me, and that Latimer was among
them.

I gave them Warfield, then; I was always good at taking off the
sheenies in the alley behind the Cruelty--remember? I gave them
that little pinch-nosed Maude Adams, and dry, corking little Mrs.
Fiske, and Henry Miller when he smooths down his white breeches
lovingly and sings Sally in our Alley, and strutting old
Mansfield, and--

Say, isn't it funny, Mag, that I've seen 'em all and know all
they can do? They've been my college education, that crowd. Not a
bad one, either, when you come to think of what I wanted from it.

They pulled the curtains down at the end and I went back to the
bedroom. I had my hat and jacket on when Mrs. Gates and some of
the younger ladies came to see me there, but I caught no glimpse
of Latimer. You'd think--wouldn't you--that he'd have made an
opportunity to say just one nice word to me in that easy, soft
voice of his? I tried to believe that perhaps he hadn't really