The Harlequinade


For some time now she has been sitting there. Miss Alice Whistler is an
attractive young person of about fifteen (very readily still she tells
her age), dressed in a silver grey frock which she wishes were longer.
The frock has a white collar; she wears grey silk stockings and black
shoes; and, finally, a little black silk apron, one of those French
aprons. If you must know still more exactly how she is dressed, look at
Whistler's portrait of Miss Alexander.

What happened was this. A pleasant old Victorian art fancier (
of) saw the child one day, and noted that her name was Whistler ("No
relation," said her Uncle Edward, "so far as we know"), and "That's how
to dress her," said he. And thereupon he forked out what he delicately
called "The Wherewithal" ("Which sounded like a sort of mackintosh,"
said Alice afterwards), for they couldn't have afforded it themselves.
"You're still young enough to take presents," said Uncle Edward. And
indeed Alice was very pleased, and saw that the hem was left wide
enough to let down several times. And here she is; the dress is kept
for these occasions.

Here she is in a low little chair, sitting with her basket of knitting
beside her on one side of a simply painted grey and black proscenium,
across which, masking the little stage, blue curtains hang in folds.
"The blue," said Miss Alice when she ordered them, "must be the colour
of Blue-eyed Mary." The silly shopman did not know the flower. "Blue
sky then," said Alice, "it's the blue that all skies seem to be when
you're really happy under them." "Reckitt's blue is what you want," the