“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if we only had that poor little girl, Miss Claridge, we’d catch these Bretons. That’s what took the coast-folk all over Europe, so Grigg says.”
Miss Claridge had performed in a large glass tank as the “Leaping Mermaid.” It took like wildfire according to our fellow-performers. We had never seen her; she was killed by diving into her tank when the circus was at Antwerp in April.
“Can’t we get up something like that?” I suggested, hopelessly.
“Who would do it? Miss Claridge’s fish-tights are in the prop-box; who’s to wear them?”
He began to say something else, but stopped suddenly, eyes fixed. We were seated nearly opposite each other, and I turned around, following the direction of his eyes.
Jacqueline stood behind me in the smoky light of the torch—Jacqueline, bare of arm and knee, with her sea-blue eyes very wide and the witch-locks clustering around the dim oval of her face. After a moment’s absolute silence she said: “I came from Paradise. Don’t you remember?” 190
“From Paradise?” said Speed, smiling; “I thought it might be from elf-land.”
And I said: “Of course I remember you, Jacqueline. And I have an idea you ought to be in bed.”
There was another silence.
“Won’t you sit down?” asked Speed.