Think of it: when the gardeners of
Egypt sent their boxes of roses to Italy to make chaplets for the Romans to
wear at feasts this play was being performed; when the solemn Doges (which
Alice once would call "Dogs") of Venice held festa days, this play was
shown to the people.
And here Alice interrupts and says: "Do you think people really like to
read all that sort of thing? Why don't you let me tell the story, please?
I'm sitting here waiting to." Well, so she shall.
The Harlequinade
For some time now she has been sitting there. Miss Alice Whistler is an
attractive young person of about fifteen (very readily still she tells
her age), dressed in a silver grey frock which she wishes were longer.
The frock has a white collar; she wears grey silk stockings and black
shoes; and, finally, a little black silk apron, one of those French
aprons. If you must know still more exactly how she is dressed, look at
Whistler's portrait of Miss Alexander.
What happened was this. A pleasant old Victorian art fancier (
of) saw the child one day, and noted that her name was Whistler ("No
relation," said her Uncle Edward, "so far as we know"), and "That's how
to dress her," said he.
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