The little old gentleman also remarked the nervous expression. And followed up the advantage already won. "Now," said he, "perhaps you'll be willing to come along quietly. We're just starting, you understand." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Gwendolyn glanced in the direction he pointed. And saw—for the first time—that a wide, smooth road led away from the Face-Shop, a road as wide and smooth and curving as the Drive. Like the Drive it was well-lighted on either side (but lighted low-down) by a row of tiny electric bulbs with frosted shades, each resembling an incandescent toadstool. (She remembered having once caught a glimpse of something similar in a store-window.) These tiny lamps were set close together on short stems, precisely as white stones of a selected size edged all the paths at Johnnie Blake's. And each gave out a soft light. She did not have to ask about them. She guessed promptly what they were—lights to make plain the way for people's feet: in short, nothing more nor less than footlights!
A few times in her life—so few that she could tell them off on her pink fingers—she had been taken to the theater, Jane accompanying her by right of nurse-maid, Miss Royle by her superior right as judge of all matters that partook of entertainment; Thomas coming also, though apparently for no reason whatever, to grace a rear seat along with the chauffeur. Seated in a box, close to the curved edge of the stage, she had seen the soft glow of the footlights. But for some reason which she could not fathom, the footlights had always been carefully concealed from everyone but the people on the stage. Trying to imagine them without any suggestions from Miss Royle or Jane, she had patterned them after a certain stuffed slipper-cushion that stood on Jane's dressing-table. How different was the reality, and how much more satisfactory!
Jane looked up the road, between the lines of footlights. "You're just startin'," she repeated. "Where?"
"To find her father and mother," answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, stoutly.
At that Jane shook her huge pompadour. "Father and mother!" she cried. "Indeed, you won't! Not while I'm a-takin' care of her." And reaching out, caught Gwendolyn—by a slender wrist.
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized the other. And the next moment Gwendolyn was unpleasantly reminded of times in the nursery, times when, Miss Royle and Jane disagreeing about her, each pulled at an arm and quarreled. For here was the nurse, tugging one direction to drag her away, and the little old gentleman tugging the other with all his might.
"Slap her hands! Slap her hands!" he shouted excitedly. "It'll start circulation."
Both slapped—so hard that her hands stung. And with the result he sought. For instantly all three began going in circles, around and around, faster and faster and faster.
It was Jane who first let go. She was puffing hard, and the perspiration was standing out upon her forehead. "I'm going to call the Policeman," she threatened shrilly.