Caprice — Key Ideas to Explore

And why to-night were they not chaunting the Psalms?

Darting out her tongue, Miss Sinquier withdrew her head and resumed her book.

The room would soon be dark.

From the grey-toned walls, scriptural, a _Sasso Sassi_ frowned.

“In all these fruitful years,” she read, “the only instance he is recorded to have smiled was at a great rat running in and out among some statues.... _He_ was the Ideal Hamlet. Morose of countenance, and cynical by nature, his outbursts, at times, would completely freeze the company.”

Miss Sinquier passed her finger-tips lightly across her hair.

“Somehow it makes no difference,” she murmured, turning towards a glass. To feign Ophelia—no matter what!

She pulled about her a lace Manilla shawl.

It was as though it were Andalusia whenever she wrapped it on.

“_Fernan Perez? What do you want?_”

“_Ravishing Rosarda, I need you._”

“_I am the wife of Don José Cuchillo—the Moor._”

“_Dona Rosarda Castilda Cuchillo, I love you._”

“_Sh——! My husband will be back directly._”

Stretched at ease before a pier-glass, Miss Sinquier grew enthralled.

The room was almost dark.

Don José would wish his revenge.

Miss Sinquier got up.

She must compose herself for dinner—wash off the blood.

She glanced about her, a trifle Spanish still.

From a clothes-peg something hanging seemed to implore.

“To see me? Why, bless you. Yes!”

With an impetuous, pretty gesture she flung it upon a couch.

“How do I like America?”

“I adore it.... You see ... I’ve lost my heart here—! Tell them so—oh! especially to the men.... Whereabouts was I born? In Westmorland; yes. _In England, Sir!_ Inquisitive? Why not at all: I was born in the sleepy peaceful town of Applethorp (three p’s), in the inmost heart—right in the very middle,” Miss Sinquier murmured, tucking a few field flowers under her chin, “of the _Close._”

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“SALLY,” her father said, “I could not make out where you sat at Vespers, child, to-night.”

In the old-world Deanery drawing room, coffee and liqueurs—a Sunday indulgence—had been brought in.

Miss Sinquier set down her cup.

Behind her, through the open windows, a riot of light leaves and creepers was swaying restively to and fro.

“I imagine the _Font_ hid me,” she answered with a little laugh.

Canon Sinquier considered with an absent air an abundant-looking moon, then turned towards his wife.

“To-morrow, Mary,” he said, “there’s poor Mrs. Cushman again.”

At her cylinder-desk, between two flickering candles, Mrs. Sinquier, while her coffee grew cold, was opening her heart to a friend.

“Do, Mike, keep still,” she begged.

“Don’t fidget. Don’t talk.”

“Or dare to breathe,” her daughter added, taking up a Sunday journal and approaching nearer the light.

“‘At the Olive Theatre,’” she read, “‘Mrs. Starcross will produce a new comedy, in the coming autumn, which promises to be of the highest interest.’”

“‘At the Kehama, Yvonde Yalta will be seen shortly in a Japanese piece, with singing mandarins, geishas, and old samurai—’”

“‘Mr. and Mrs. Mary are said to be contemplating Management again.’”

“‘For the revival of _She Stoops to——_’”

Crescendo, across the mist-clad Close broke a sorrowful, sated voice.

“You can fasten the window, Sarah,” Canon Sinquier said.

“Who could have taught her? How?” the Canon wondered.

Mrs. Sinquier laid down her pen.

“I dread her intimate dinner!” she said.

“Is it to be intimate?”

“Isn’t she always? ‘Come round and see me soon, Miss Sarah, _there’s_ a dear, and let’s be intimate!’”

“Sally can take off anyone.”

“It’s vulgar, dear, to mimic.”

“I’d bear a good deal to be on the stage.”

Canon Sinquier closed his eyes.

“Recite, dear, something; soothe me,” he said.

“Of course, if you wish it.”

“Something to obliterate the sermon?”

Miss Sinquier looked down at her feet. She had on black babouches all over little pearls with filigree butterflies that trembled above her toes.

“_Since first I beheld you, Adele, While dancing the celinda, I have remained faithful to the thought of you; My freedom has departed from me,_ _I care no longer for all other negresses; I have no heart left for them;— You have such grace and cunning;— You are like the Congo serpent._”

Miss Sinquier paused.

“You need the proper movements....” she explained. “One ought _really_ to shake one’s shanks!”

“Being a Day-of-rest, my dear, we will dispense with it.”

“_I love you too much, my beautiful one— I am not able to help it. My heart has become just like a grasshopper,— It does nothing but leap. I have never met any woman Who has so beautiful a form as yours. Your eyes flash flame; Your body has enchained me captive._