“Skirts, all in white, Warwick style,” said Jimmy. “A school-girls’ spree: see-saw on the bike ... somersaults over the benches ... waltzes, lively tunes: an impression of gaiety and happiness. The star is a statue on a pedestal in the park. The others throw flowers to her. She wakes; steps down: ‘Hullo, a bike!’ And then a special tune for the star and a waltz on the back-wheel, amid the admiring circle of school-girls.”
“All right,” said Harrasford. “And what’s the price of the New Trickers?”
“So much.”
And he jotted it down in his note-book, near the prices of Dare Devil and Cataplasm.
Jimmy also took notes, mentioned the names of the great serio, the great comic singer, with their figures:
“So much.”
“They earn their money pretty easily, those two!” grunted Harrasford. “But I’ve got to submit to it, I suppose. Next?”
Jimmy only described the spectacular turns. Harrasford listened, saw it in his head: a corner of untamed nature, a valley in the mountains, blue distances, sunshine in the foreground. The Three Graces arrive all out of breath.
“You understand,” said Jimmy, “they are supposed to have been chasing the deer or hunting butterflies. As a matter of fact, Mr. Fuchs will have made them do their Sandow, before going on, to bring the blood to their cheeks; he’s full of ideas, is Mr. Fuchs. On arriving, a moment’s rest, an adorable group in all the splendor of the nude ... sweet, solemn music ... and then a glorious performance, a sort of human cluster hanging from the trapezes, something healthy and robust.”
“All right,” said Harrasford, putting a cross in his note-book opposite the Three Graces. “And next?”