Thurley had led the way inside the barn and settled herself on a bench. “How is June Myers and Josie Donaldson—see, I haven’t forgotten their names—and—Lorraine—and Dan?” she tried to say easily.
Ali Baba glanced at her shrewdly. “Oh, June is the same little whiffet she always was and Josie is tryin’ to write a play; she’ll come to see you, don’t never worry.... We got a new kind of fool here—Owen Pringle; he has an art store and when he heard you was comin’, he sent to town for photographs of you—I didn’t know you could buy ’em right out—and he wants you to autograph ’em and then he’ll sell ’em—don’t you write a stroke of the pen—and his clerk, Cora Spooner—oh, we got a right good stock of pests on hand. I tell you, Thurley, things ain’t like they used to be.”
“You didn’t say about—Dan,” Thurley urged, wondering why she trembled.
“Fine—business growing. Was you scared the first time you come out on the stage?”
“Not much. How are all the home folks, that’s what I want to know.”
Ali Baba lit his pipe in democratic fashion. “All up to snuff, fools included ... goin’ to sing in meetin’?”
“If I’m asked.”
“Well, for land’s sake and Mrs. Davis,” he commanded, “sing somethin’ with a regular tune. I can’t go these songs that slide all over and back again afore a feller gets his foot to tappin’ on time.... Guess you learned to sing in Eyetalian from what you write Betsey?”
“Yes.”