"The Globe has an open roof except over the stage. But if it gets too dull on winter afternoons, they light the stage with torches of burning pitch or tar."
"Who exactly goes to these playhouses?"
"Everyone. Except maybe the Puritans. Anybody can afford a penny. And the Globe is not that far from the Southwark bear gardens, so a lot of people come after they've been to see bearbaiting. The pit is usually full of rowdy tradesmen, who stand around the stage and turn the air blue with tobacco smoke."
"So high-caste women and women from good families wouldn't go."
"Of course women go." Hawksworth tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. "There are gallants in London who'll tell you the Globe is the perfect place to spot a comely wench, or even a woman of fashion looking for some sport while her husband's drunk at a gaming house."
"I don't believe such things happen."
"Well that's the way it is in England." Hawksworth settled against the boulder. "You have to understand women there don't let themselves be locked up and hidden behind veils. So if a cavalier spies a comely woman at the Globe, he'll find a way to praise her dress, or her figure, and then he'll offer to sit next to her, you know, just to make sure some rude fellow doesn't trod on the hem of her petticoats with muddy boots, and no chips fall in her lap. Then after the play begins, he'll buy her a bag of roasted chestnuts, or maybe some oranges from one of the orange-wenches walking through the galleries. And if she carries on with him a bit, he'll offer to squire her home."
"I suppose you've done just that?" She examined him in dismay.
Hawksworth shifted, avoiding her gaze. "I've mainly heard of it."
"Well, I don't enjoy hearing about it. What about the honor of these women's families? They sound reprehensible, with less dignity than nautch girls."