“Park rights?” Peggy said wonderingly. “Do you mean it’s a private park?”
“That’s right,” her father answered. “One of the last in New York. Its use is limited to people who live right around it, all of whom have keys to the gates. That’s one thing that makes this such a nice place to live.”
The cab had made almost a complete circle of the park when the driver turned off into a side street. Two doors down he stopped before a handsome brownstone house, complete with the steep steps and brass fittings that were typical of the area. On either side of the steps, at street level, stood a square stone column, and on each one was a polished brass plate engraved: Gramercy Arms.
As Peggy started up the steps she caught a glimpse through the windows in the little areaway below street level. The spacious kitchen she saw looked far more typical of Rockport than anything she would have expected to find in New York City, and it made her feel sure that she would like living in May Berriman’s house.
May Berriman herself proved to be as big and as warm looking and as countrified as her kitchen. Her erect carriage and bright-red hair belied her more than sixty years, and her voice was deep and even, with none of the quaver that Peggy was used to hearing in older people. She met them at the door with vast and impartial enthusiasm, kissed them all and ushered them into a tiny sitting room, tastefully furnished with a mixture of modern and antique pieces. They had scarcely had time to say hello when tea was served by a bright-eyed, kimonoed Japanese woman who might have been any age at all. Peggy watched in silent pleasure as May Berriman poured the tea in the formal English style, using an essence, fresh boiled water, an alcohol burner to keep the tea hot, and an assortment of tongs, spoons, and strainers. It was not until each of them had a fragile cup of hot, fragrant tea and a plate of delicate little sandwiches that May Berriman sat back, relaxed, for conversation.
“Peggy, your father told me on the phone that you have been accepted in the Academy. I’m delighted. Now tell me, what do you think of Archer Macaulay?”
“I hardly know,” Peggy admitted. “I’ve never met anyone like him. Is he always as abrupt as that?”
“Always!” May Berriman laughed. “Ever since I’ve known Archie—and that goes back a good many years—he’s tried to act like a bad playwright’s idea of an Early Victorian theatrical genius. It’s a peculiar sort of act when you first see it, but after a while you get used to it and hardly notice at all. Besides, it’s not all sham. He may not be Early Victorian, but he is a theatrical genius.”
“Was he an actor?” Peggy asked.
“Goodness, no! Only in his personal life! There’s a world of difference between acting and teaching; you hardly ever find anyone who’s good at both. Macaulay’s a magnificent teacher, so he had sense enough never even to try acting.”