Davidge sighed with relief as if her escape had been just a moment before instead of years ago.
“Lord! I’m glad you didn’t marry him! But tell me what did happen after I saw you.”
The road led them into a sizable town, street-car tracks, bad pavements, stupid shops, workmen’s little homes in rows like chicken-houses, then better streets, better homes, business blocks well paved, a hotel, a post-office, a Carnegie library, a gawky Civil War statue, then poorer shops, rickety pavements, shanties, and the country again.
Davidge noted that she had not answered his question. He repeated it:
“What happened after you and the monkey-trainer parted?”
“Oh, years later I was in Berlin with a team called the Musical Mokes, and Sir Joseph and Lady Webling saw me and thought I looked like their daughter, and they adopted me––that’s all.”
She had grown a bit weary of her autobiography. Abbie had made her tell it over and over, but had tried in vain to find out what went on between her stage-beginnings and her last appearance in Berlin.
Davidge was fascinated by her careless summary of such great events; for to one in love, all biography of the beloved becomes important history. But having seen her as a member of Sir Joseph’s household, he was more interested in the interregnum.
“But between your reaching Berlin and the time I saw you what happened?”