“You children will have your joke,” she said, “now I wonder what I’d better do for them to start with? You know, what makes me so unique as an entertainer, children—and if I’d wanted to be I’d be famous now on the London stage—is that I’m entirely independent of such artificial aids as mechanical musical instruments and books of words and such things. I depend upon the unaided efforts of my voice—and I’ve a perfect voice for humorous songs, you know, children—and my facial expression. Of course I’ve a magnetic personality ... that’s the secret of the whole thing....”
William was tense and stern and scowling. He wasn’t thinking of Miss Poll’s magnetic personality. He was thinking of Miss Poll’s coat. The first step had been to lure Miss Poll to the Fête; the second and, he began to think, the harder, would be to detach the coat from Miss Poll’s person.
“It’s—it’s sort of gettin’ hot, i’n’t it?” he said huskily.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Miss Poll pleasantly.
William’s heart lightened. “Wun’t you like to take your coat off?” he said persuasively. “I’ll carry it for you.”
But Miss Poll who considered, quite erroneously, that the coat made her look startlingly youthful and pretty, shook her head and clutched the coat tightly at her neck.
“No, certainly not,” she said firmly.
William pondered his next line of argument.
“I thought,” he suggested at last meekly, “I thought p’raps you sing better without your coat.”
Henry, who felt that he was supporting William rather inadequately, said: “Yes, you sort of look as if you’d sing better without a coat.”