With “Kit” in St. Louis.
At St. Louis, impressionable Kit accompanied me to a reproduction of the Passion Play of Oberammergau, and in one scene I heard “Kit” sobbing. “What’s the matter with you, Kit?” I sympathetically whispered. “Oh, see our blessed Saviour; they’re crucifying him,” she tearfully replied. “Well, let’s get out of here,” and I hustled her to an adjoining performance where an Irish-Australian songstress was energetically singing, “The Wearing of the Green,” as we were seated. And Kit, her face wreathed in smiles, was vigorously keeping time with the tune by patting the floor with her foot. What a difference a few minutes makes.
At another show, a trip through Siberia, Kit and I approached the entrance where there was a locomotive with steam up and bell ringing. I was enjoying a cigar, and casually, but confoundedly simply, asked the attendant if I would have time to finish my smoke before the show started. “Hold that engine,” he shouted to the engineer, “all aboard—hurry up.” And like a chump I threw away my butt and we hiked in behind the locomotive only to find, as any one but a rube would have known, that it was a stationary one, and had really nothing to do with the trip.
Kit was great—she never failed me. At a gathering of the club in Toronto, when the Governor General was present, I laughingly offered to wager with some of the girls that I would kiss the prettiest woman that would come into the room. I won hands down, for when Kit came in, she rushed up to me and, putting her arms around me, smacked me on the place where smacks should smack and gaily chirped: “Arrah, George, darlint, how are you? Haven’s seen you for an age.”
“Francoise” was beloved of all, and her charming talk was irresistible. When she passed away, there was many a tear-dimmed eye and many a heavy heart as we reverently laid her to rest.