“We can go into matters of that sort some other time,” he said. “I think it would be better for you to leave mother and me alone for a minute just now.”
Bonnie May went out of the room in response to Baron’s gesture. “I’ll show you the way,” he said, and as he began to guide her up the stairs she turned toward him, glancing cautiously over his shoulder to the room they had just quitted.
“Believe me,” she whispered, “that’s the first time I’ve had stage fright in years.” She mounted three or four steps and then paused again. “You know,” she confided, turning again, “she makes you think of a kind of honest sister to Lady Macbeth.”
Baron stopped short, his hand on the balustrade. “Bonnie May,” he demanded, “will you tell me how old you are?”
He had a sudden fear that she was one of those pitiable creatures whose minds grow old but whose bodies remain the same from year to year.
“I don’t know,” she replied, instantly troubled. “Miss Barry never would tell me.”
“Well, how far back can you remember?”
“Oh, quite a long time. I know I had a real speaking part as long as four seasons ago. I’ve been doing little Eva off and on over two years.”
He was greatly relieved. “It seems to me,” he said severely, “that you know about plays which a little girl ought not to know anything about.”
“Oh! Well, I was with Miss Barry in lots of plays that I didn’t have any part in, unless it might be to help out with the populace, or something like that. And we did stock work for a while, with a new play every week.”