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Dumplings A Global History 1st Edition Barbara Gallani
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Barbara Gallani
ISBN(s): 9781780234335, 1780234333
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 2.94 MB
Year: 2015
Language: english
dumplings
 Edible
Series Editor: Andrew F. Smith
edible is a revolutionary series of books dedicated to food and drink
that explores the rich history of cuisine. Each book reveals the global
history and culture of one type of food or beverage.

Already published

Apple Erika Janik Barbecue Jonathan Deutsch and Megan

J. Elias Beef Lorna Piatti-Farnell Beer Gavin D. Smith
Brandy Becky Sue Epstein Bread William Rubel
Cake Nicola Humble Caviar Nichola Fletcher Champagne
Becky Sue Epstein Cheese Andrew Dalby Chocolate Sarah
Moss and Alexander Badenoch Cocktails Joseph M. Carlin
Curry Colleen Taylor Sen Dates Nawal Nasrallah Dumplings
Barbara Gallani Eggs Diane Toops Figs David C. Sutton
Game Paula Young Lee Gin Lesley Jacobs Solmonson
Hamburger Andrew F. Smith Herbs Gary Allen
Hot Dog Bruce Kraig Ice Cream Laura B. Weiss
Lemon Toby Sonneman Lobster Elisabeth Townsend
Milk Hannah Velten Mushroom Cynthia D. Bertelsen
Nuts Ken Albala Offal Nina Edwards Olive Fabrizia Lanza
Oranges Clarissa Hyman Pancake Ken Albala
Pie Janet Clarkson Pineapple Kaori O’ Connor
Pizza Carol Helstosky Pork Katharine M. Rogers
Potato Andrew F. Smith Pudding Jeri Quinzio Rice Renee
Marton Rum Richard Foss Salmon Nicolaas Mink Sandwich
Bee Wilson Sauces Maryann Tebben Soup Janet Clarkson
Spices Fred Czarra Sugar Andrew F. Smith Tea Helen Saberi
Tequila Ian Williams Truffle Zachary Nowak Vodka Patricia
Herlihy Whiskey Kevin R. Kosar Wine Marc Millon
Dumplings
A Global History

Barbara Gallani

reaktion books
 To my dumpling-loving family

Published by Reaktion Books Ltd

33 Great Sutton Street
London ec1v 0dx, uk
www.reaktionbooks.co.uk

First published 2015

Copyright © Barbara Gallani 2015

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers

Printed and bound in China

A catalogue record for this book is available

from the British Library

isbn 978 1 78023 433 5

 Contents

1 What is a Dumpling? 7
2 Dumplings Around the World 15
3 Etymology, Historical Documents
and Cookbooks 29
4 From Celebratory Feast to Street Food 52
5 Folklore, Literature and Film 71
6 How to Make Dumplings 94

Recipes 107
Glossary 119
Select Bibliography 129
Websites and Associations 131
Acknowledgements 133
Photo Acknowledgements 135
Index 137
 1
What is a Dumpling?

The word ‘dumpling’ can mean many different things in the

culinary world: fluffy balls of wheat flour and animal fat
floating to the surface of hearty stews; delicate parcels of
dough filled with meat or vegetables and then steamed; or
firm little lumps of potato, egg and flour served in a thick
sauce. Savoury and sweet dumplings are widespread across
the world, with simple varieties served as an everyday meal in
the home or in school and factory canteens. More elaborate
versions are prepared once or twice a year for celebrations
and festivals.
Any official definition of the word ‘dumpling’ is likely
only to partially describe what is an extraordinary variety of
foods. This difficulty in finding a universal definition is also
caused by the fact that the English word ‘dumpling’ is used
as a shortcut translation for a long list of foods that have very
similar characteristics but also very well-defined identities and
vocabulary in the language of the country from which they
come. The glossary at the end of this book provides an idea
of these differences and similarities. A chef in Chiang Mai,
Thailand – well-versed in Asian dumplings and in their some-
times very subtle differences – once said to me, pointing at a
number of bamboo steamers on a dim sum trolley, ‘Chinese
7
Mongolian buuz filled with mutton or yak and steamed.

dumplings: same same but different.’ This popular Thai saying

seemed quite appropriate in the circumstances.
In order to match the meaning of the original language,
some translations are required to be less telegraphic than the
simple word ‘dumpling’, and might extend to a fuller descrip-
tion of the food including its ingredients, cooking method
and presentation. The single Italian word carmelle, for example,
captures very succinctly all the following characteristics: a
dumpling made of a thin wheat wrap, ricotta cheese and spin-
ach filling, shaped as a wrapped boiled sweet, boiled in water,
served with melted butter and sage, and typical of the town
8
of Piacenza, northern Italy. The English translation, correct
but far from comprehensive, would simply be ‘Italian type of
filled dumpling’.
The Oxford English Dictionary limits its definition to ‘a small
savoury ball of dough’, excluding other shapes and omitting
any reference to the possible presence of a filling. On the
other hand, it accepts ‘boiled, fried and baked in a casserole’ as
suitable cooking methods. For the purpose of this book, my
definition of a dumpling, which I have developed over many
years of research and in-depth conversations with chefs, cooks
and enthusiasts, as well as a fair amount of eating, extends to
both unfilled and filled varieties, including what is sometimes
described as filled pasta. However, I prefer to exclude frying
and baking as cooking methods, since these result in what
people usually recognize as fritters or small pasties rather than
dumplings.
Many unfilled dumplings are very easy to prepare, being
nothing more than a few basic ingredients mixed together,

Many unfilled dumplings are simple homogeneous mixtures of a very few

common ingredients, cooked in boiling water and served with roasted meat
and gravy or stews.

9
dropped into boiling water, drained and served with a stew
or rich sauce. To make things even simpler, they can also be
cooked directly in the broth or casserole in which they will
be served. This type of dumpling is used to add bulk to a
meal and as an alternative to potatoes, pasta or rice. The sim-
plest recipes include just wheat flour and water; other typical
ingredients include breadcrumbs and fat, sometimes with
the addition of herbs, cheese or egg. In Africa, wheat flour is
replaced by millet, yam or other local starchy ingredients,
while in Central, Eastern and Northern Europe potatoes tend
to be the main ingredient of choice. Unfilled dumplings are
not ideally served on their own, since they taste bland and,
although filling, are not particularly nutritious.
Filled dumplings consist of a layer of dough wrapped
around a seemingly infinite variety of juicy and tasty fillings.
There is no limit to the imagination when it comes to possible
ingredients, the only constraints being availability – clearly
linked to geography and seasonality – and tradition. Also,
once the art of preparing and rolling the dough and shaping
individual dumplings is mastered, depending on whether the
dumplings are intended for a quick and simple everyday meal
or for a special occasion, more unusual and elaborate combin-
ations of ingredients and flavours can be developed. Filled
dumplings are a complete course in themselves and do not
need any substantial accompaniment beside the filling; they
are served with the simplest of sauces, or with no sauce at all.
My passion for dumplings has meant that I have enthu-
siastically tried all the following: meat fillings – beef, pork,
mutton, chicken, rabbit, yak, duck; vegetables – cabbage,
spinach, nettles, mushrooms, pumpkin, chestnut, fennel, arti-
chokes, onions, seaweed; cheese – blue cheese, ricotta, cream
cheese, mozzarella; fish – salmon, pollack; seafood – shrimps,
lobster, crab; and sweet varieties including fruit, jam, nuts,
10
Dumplings are produced on an industrial scale, using machines with inter-
changeable moulds that wrap double layers of dough around the filling
and transport the finished product on a conveyor belt for packing.
chocolate and chocolate/hazelnut spread. I have not yet cooked
or been offered a peanut butter variety, but that does not mean
it is not available or worth trying. In short, the rule for choos-
ing a filling is that anything goes. In fact, most dumplings, as
with many other traditional dishes, were originally intended
as a way of using up leftovers, and many recipes make use of
stale bread, breadcrumbs and day-old stews, roast meat or
fish, saving the time of preparing the filling and resulting in
interesting and unique combinations of flavours.
Preparing filled dumplings from scratch can be a tricky
and sticky business. It requires practice and patience and is
better achieved with more than just one pair of hands. In fact,
it is traditional in many cultures for all women of the same
family to gather in the kitchen to make dumplings for the
feasts that mark particular celebrations, such as for the Catholic
Christmas celebrations in Poland or Italy, the Chinese New
Year or the eve of Jewish Yom Kippur. The rolling of the
dough, the pounding of the filling and the shaping of the
dumplings are of course made less onerous by the convivial
atmosphere in the kitchen, the presence of children and the
sharing of the latest family news and gossip. This is also the
most immediate way of passing down recipes and skills to the
younger women in the family, and first-timers are encouraged
to persevere even if their initial attempts produce less than
optimal results.
Once prepared, dumplings can be dried or frozen in large
quantities and are then ready to be cooked, when required, in
just a few minutes. Many types of ready-to-cook dumpling
are now available from supermarkets, Eastern European
delis or Asian stores. They are either packed in vacuum con-
tainers with a shelf life of several weeks, or can be bought
frozen in large family bags and cooked in boiling water
when required. Although the whole experience of making
12
dumplings is worth celebrating and perpetuating, it does
clearly take a lot of skill, effort and time. In societies that
have changed beyond recognition, where the average time
dedicated to cooking a meal barely reaches 30 or 40 minutes,
the convenience of pre-packed, tasty, easy-to-cook dumplings
is welcome and allows the preparation of fast but healthy
and complete meals without having to cook from scratch. Tra-
ditional recipes coexist on the shelves of supermarkets with
new and seasonal varieties. Italian tortellini, for example, are
no longer limited to the traditional Parma ham filling but are
made with Spanish chorizo and sundried tomatoes or Swiss
Emmenthal cheese and juicy raisins. These combinations
are the result of the fusion of regional ingredients into tasty

Different types and shapes of dumplings.

13
and well-balanced recipes accessible to all thanks to the
ever-increasing globalization of food supply.
When talking about dumplings, size definitely matters, as
it is a defining characteristic of the different varieties. The larg-
est dumplings are served individually or in twos, and often date
back to very old, traditional recipes developed from staple
ingredients and leftovers. Central European gomboc, African
fufu and South American tamales are impressive in size and
certainly good plate-fillers. At the opposite end of the scale,
‘dropped’ dumplings such as the German or Austrian Spätzle
and Hungarian csipetke are tiny little things made of dough cut
into very small pieces and rolled into oblongs before being
dropped in boiling water for a few minutes. Such examples are
testimony to the fact that the generic word ‘dumpling’ can
only begin to describe the many varieties being dished out day
in, day out throughout the world.

14
 2
Dumplings Around the World

The geographical spread of the dumpling covers most of the

globe, from the Alpine regions of Europe to the Mongolian
steppes; from sub-Saharan Africa to rural Japan; and from the
maize fields of Latin America to Chinese communities through-
out the world. Dumplings have always coexisted as versions of
an unpretentious, filling peasant food, making small amounts
of meat stretch far enough to feed large families and commu-
nities, or as elaborate, refined parcels of dough, wrapped
around delicate fillings and served for special occasions.
When looking at the history of the dumpling, it is possible
to draw a historical parallel with the well-known debate about
whether Italian spaghetti came before or after Chinese noodles.
In fact, some types of filled dumpling carry with them inter-
esting questions that remain largely unanswered: is there a
documented link between Italian ravioli, Russian pelmeni, Central
Asian manti and Chinese wontons? To what extent did Marco
Polo, or any other Venetian merchant for that matter, play a part
in culinary exchange and influence between the spice-rich Far
East and the established traditions of European kitchens?
The dumpling has developed independently in many
different parts of the world through the use of common ingre-
dients. Travel and commercial exchanges have contributed to
15
Travel and commercial exchanges along the Silk Road have influenced the
evolution of dumplings.
Filled dumplings, including Italian ravioli, are a versatile dish that can be
served with very simple sauces or just a drizzle of olive oil.

the transfer of certain shapes and combinations of tastes

from country to country and across continents.
The intensive military and commercial activities of the
Repubbliche Marinare (the city-states, including Genoa, Pisa
and Venice, that flourished in Italy between the tenth and
thirteenth centuries) acted as a catalyst for cultural and cu-
linary exchange, as merchants and crusaders alike travelled
across the Mediterranean and ventured further into the Middle
and Far East than ever before. For example, during the twelfth
century ravioli, a square dumpling made of a filling sealed
between two layers of thin pasta, began to spread from Genoa
to Parma and Venice, and from there to other regions in
Europe, in particular through Hungary, Poland and Bohemia.
Medieval commercial fairs provided an opportunity for mer-
chants to exchange goods and currencies, and attracted crowds
from nearby and faraway towns and villages. Food and drink
constituted a big aspect of these commercially motivated and
18
extremely lively gatherings, which owed their popularity also
to the presence of acrobats, storytellers, magicians and women
of ill repute. The frequent fairs held in Genoa’s harbour, then
an important centre of commerce in the Mediterranean, cer-
tainly played a big role in extending the popularity of ravioli
among sailors and merchants from further afield.
In the thirteenth century Genovese and Venetian mer-
chants, including Marco Polo’s family, travelled east to conduct
commercial dealings and exploration. Marco Polo’s account
of his incredibly exotic journey, whether fully founded on
personal experience or embellished with tales heard along
the way, provided inspiration for countless generations of
explorers and travellers, as well as insight into the way of life
of the nomadic Tartars, or Mongols, including their cere-
monies, travels, food and social rules. As Marco Polo was
travelling eastwards, the Mongols, led by Ghengis Khan, were

Uzbek manti, a staple of Central Asia and the Middle East, served
with yoghurt and dill.

19
Eastern European dumplings such as Polish pierogi, Russian pelmeni and
Ukrainian varenyky are very similar in shape, texture and filling.

travelling west across the steppes of Central Asia, conquering

neighbouring civilizations and deriving sustenance from
dumplings filled with mutton, yak and horse meat, and boiled
on open campfires. For Ghengis Khan’s Mongols, as for
today’s Central Asian nomadic populations, meat-based dump-
lings were an important part of the diet together with dairy
products including goat’s and mare’s milk, cream and cheese.
Central Asia gradually became a melting pot for different
traditions of filled dumpling, as commercial exchange and
geopolitical developments brought ingredients and recipes
from Italy, China and Mongolia into contact with traditional
varieties already present in the region. It is notable that in
Turkey dumplings are also called Tatar böregi (Tartar pasties),
20
and significant common threads across Central Asia are the
filling of minced lamb, often charged with black pepper and
other spices, and the habit of smothering dumplings in garlic,
yoghurt or sour milk.
Claudia Roden, a food writer particularly knowledgeable
about Middle Eastern and Jewish cooking, recognizes the strong
connection between Italian and Central Asian dumplings in
The Book of Jewish Food: An Odyssey from Samarkand and Vilna to
the Present Day (1997):

Pasta came to Poland as a result of Italian presence at the

royal courts and also by way of Central Asia. That may be
why the cheese kreplach [a type of filled dumpling], sauced
with sour cream, owes more to the Turkish-Mongolian
manti with yoghurt poured over than to Italian ravioli or
cappelletti.

The fact that Russian pelmeni is filled with a mixture of

meats strongly flavoured with black pepper and spices not
native to Russia is also often used to corroborate the theory
that pelmeni originated in China and was carried by the Mongols
to Siberia, the Urals and as far as Anatolia and Eastern Europe.
However, although influences from the Far East are very
plausible, the origin of the Russian dumpling is not clear.
One possibility is that it originated in the Urals as pieces of
meat wrapped in very thin bread called pel’nyan’, which means,
in native languages Komi and Mansi, ‘bread ear’. It was then
spread across Central Asia by Russian explorers and pio-
neers. It is also possible that it was developed by hunters, who
needed light, easy-to-prepare, nourishing food to take with
them on long hunting trips. Pelmeni fitted the purpose, as it
keeps for a long time in sub-zero temperatures and is quickly
boiled in pots of water over an open fire.
21
 Other types of dumpling can be found in eastern Europe.
These include Ukrainian varenyky, which derives its name from
the verb ‘to boil’, and Polish pierogi, which is made with vari-
ous fillings, one of which is practically identical to the Russian
dumpling and aptly named Russkie pierogi. However, the word
pyrogi, both in Russia and in Ukraine, describes not a dumpling
but a type of fluffy baked bun generally filled with fruit or
poppy seeds.
The same phenomenon as that in Central Asia can be
easily mapped out across Africa, South America and Northern
Europe. In these regions, a variety of very similar unfilled
dumplings developed at first independently in different
places, making use of common and plentiful ingredients, then
spread across each continent, giving rise to interesting hybrid
recipes.
On the African continent, unfilled dumplings of similar
appearance and taste can be found under different names in
a number of countries in the west, east and south. They are a
staple and consist of the local carbohydrate source – yam,
sweet potato, sorghum, millet, cassava or maize (both origin-
ally from South America) – cooked, pounded, shaped into
dumplings and served with stewed or roasted meat, fish or
vegetables. Kenkey, a popular variety in West Africa made of
a maize sourdough wrapped in banana leaves and steamed,
is equally common in the Caribbean as mangu or mofongo. In
South Africa sweet souskluitjies are a favourite among Afrikaans
children; these are quite different from dumplings found
elsewhere on the continent as they are made with self-raising
flour, egg and milk, boiled in plenty of water and served in a
very sweet cinnamon syrup.
In Latin America where the staple food is maize, dump-
lings – either filled (with meat, cheese or raisins and dried fruit)
or unfilled – are made with masa, a dough of maize flour and
22
Polish potato balls with meat and pumpkin filling.
Hungarian knodli with chicken and paprika stew.

limewater, wrapped in banana leaves and steamed. The name

varies from tamales to humitas, depending on the country.
In Central and Northern Europe, where one of the main
sources of carbohydrate is the potato, the tuber is boiled and
mashed, or grated when still raw, and then combined into
dumplings bound by egg, fat or milk. Dumplings are then
shaped into balls or ellipses and boiled in water. Although very
similar, they have many different names, in various languages
and local dialects, that often mean ‘potato ball’, ‘potato cake’
or ‘potato dumpling’. Some examples are Norwegian potet klub
and potetball, Polish kopytka, German Kartoffelkloesse and Danish
frikasseboller.
Jewish dumplings also developed a distinct identity through
the interaction of Jewish communities with ingredients, foods
and traditions around the world, mainly in different parts of
Europe and the Middle East, following the diaspora. The
24
best-known Jewish dumplings are the unfilled knaidl (matzah
balls) and the filled kreplach. Claudia Roden writes:

The Yiddish word knaidl is derived from the German

Knödel, meaning ‘dumpling’. Since the early Middle Ages,
dumplings of all kinds have been popular in German,
Czech and Austrian cooking, and came into the Jewish
diet. All over Eastern Europe they epitomize the robust
peasant and poor man’s food.
Stuffed pasta shaped like giant cappelletti or tortellini
came to the Jews of Germany through Venice in the early
fourteenth century.

The birthplace of Asian dumplings is China, where the

thousands of combinations of different shapes, fillings and

The Dumpling Seller, c. 1790, watercolour and ink on paper, Guangzhou,

China. This painting is from a set of 100 that depict different trades and
occupations in Canton. Paintings such as this were made for Europeans
eager to find out more about China.

25
recipes can be broadly grouped into three types: wontons,
jiaozi and baozi. Because of the difficulty of transliteration and
translation, not to mention regional differences that are some-
times substantial and sometimes very subtle, it is difficult to
summarise in a few words the traits of these Chinese special-
ities. However, the following should serve as a very general
description: wonton is made of a very thin dough wrapper and
usually served in a broth or steamed. Jiaozi are made of a thick
and chewy dough, and shaped like a horn or a big Brazil nut.
It is usually steamed or boiled and served with a soy-based or
hot chilli dip; pan-fried jiaozi are known as guotie (pot-stickers).
Baozi are filled buns made of a fluffy, bread-like dough and
steamed. In certain parts of China they are called mantou,
although the name mantou mainly refers to plain, unfilled baozi.
From China, the wonton travelled west through the
Mongolian steppes and east to Korea before crossing the sea,
and became a popular staple food in Japan under the name

Chinese pan-fried jiaozi, or pot-stickers, are richly flavoured with garlic.

26
gyoza. At the same time the baozi also travelled and became
established, under different names, in other Far Eastern coun-
tries and as far as Hawaii. The Hawaiian version is known as
manapua and was brought to these Pacific islands by Chinese
migrants in search of work, who started selling it on the streets,
initially walking around with baskets of steaming filled dump-
lings and then selling from vans parked at street corners and
on popular beaches. Now manapua is also available in bakeries,
restaurants and supermarkets.
As is the case with the Chinese dumplings in Hawaii, many
food exchanges are a direct consequence of the historical and
economic factors that are behind migration. With migrant
populations come suitcases and trunks, soon followed by
crates and containers, of traditional foods from their coun-
tries and regions of origin. For example, dumplings became
an established food in North America after migrants from
Italy, Germany and other parts of Central and Eastern Europe
reached the New World at the same time as waves of migrants
from China and other Asian countries. It is curious that in the
usa ‘ravs’, originally an Italo-American contraction of the
word ravioli, became a common term sloppily extended to
cover any type of filled dumpling that came from outside
the country, irrespective of whether it is Italian ravioli, Polish
pierogi or Russian pelmeni. In addition, Chinese wontons are
often referred to in the usa as Chinese or Peking ravs.
The fascinating phenomenon of ingredient swapping
and cross-referencing between cooking traditions and recipes
continues today. Contemporary twists to traditional recipes are
more and more common thanks to increased global sourcing
of ingredients and foods, affordable travel and immediate
access to information. The result is a continuous revision,
adaptation and mutation of traditional recipes with a marked
impact on regional and local cuisines. For example, cream
27
Stuffing meat into Chinese-style baozi before steaming in large wooden
baskets for large-scale production.

cheese wontons are now served in North American Chinese

restaurants, and Mars bar and Nutella momo (a boiled dumpling
traditionally filled with mutton or vegetables) is very popular
with homesick, chocolate-craving backpackers in cafés across
Nepal and Tibet.

28
 3
Etymology, Historical
Documents and Cookbooks

Dumplings may not rival Marie Antoinette’s brioche as a

globally renowned foodstuff but they are certainly well rep-
resented in historical records and cookbooks worldwide. This
is not surprising, considering that it is a ubiquitous food,
steeped in tradition. The evolution of the dumpling can be
traced by comparing recipes from the yellowed pages of books
of a bygone era with those from the glossy, colourful publi-
cations that fill the cookery sections of bookshops and the
kitchen shelves of the middle classes. Many of the recipes
collected in books from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries
provide a record of how dumplings have been prepared and
eaten for hundreds of years. Even now, the most traditional
recipes are still used in modern kitchens and factories and
are strictly adhered to, especially when celebratory meals are
concerned. Many new varieties, resulting from experimenta-
tion in kitchens and restaurants, are influenced by the desire
to fuse and combine different world cuisines and unusual
ingredients to make everyday meals more interesting and
appealing.

29
Wontons, Chinese dumplings made of very thin wrappers and often served
in a broth. The etymology of the word could refer to their irregular shape.
 Etymology
Despite copious references, the etymology of some of the
words used to describe dumplings in different languages is
not always clear. Through written or oral tradition several
interpretations emerge, most of which link the origin of the
different words either to their shape or to their filling. As is
clear from the glossary at the end of this book, there are many
names for dumplings, reflecting the fact that they can be com-
pacted or folded into many different shapes and filled with
various combinations of ingredients.
The English word ‘dumpling’, for example, has been
traced back to the sixteenth or seventeenth century, when the
now obsolete noun ‘dump’, which probably meant ‘lump’, was
given a diminutive suffix. The more recent cepelinai, on the other
hand, which became popular in Ukraine in the mid-twentieth
century, derived its name from the German airship designed
by Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin, because of its oblong shape
and large size.
In Mandarin some dumplings are called huntun, which
roughly means ‘irregularly shaped’, and are the equivalent of
the Cantonese ‘wonton’, which means ‘swallowing clouds’ and
could refer to the steam rising from the hot filling when the
dumpling is bitten into or even to the irregular shape and white
or translucent colour of some dumplings.
The etymology of jiaozi also has slightly different explan-
ations, both of which relate to its shape. According to some,
it was invented by Zhang Zhongjing (ad 150–220), a practi-
tioner of traditional Chinese medicine and author of Shang Han
Za Bing Lun (Treatise on Cold Pathogenic and Miscellaneous
Diseases). Zhang was committed to helping Chinese people
from all social classes fight disease, and developed a special
soup made with mutton, peppers and medicinal ingredients
31
to placate not just hunger but also cold and even frostbite
afflicting the ears. The soup contained ear-shaped dumplings,
the name of which, jiaozi, comes from the same root as the
word for ear. A different interpretation has it that jiaozi derives
its name from its horn shape, as the Chinese for horn is jiao,
which signified the shape of gold ingots and was a symbol
of wealth.
I encountered very similar difficulties when researching
the origins of the Italian word ‘ravioli’. According to differ-
ent but equally reputable sources, the name derived from the
verb ravvolgere (to wrap), the noun rovogliolo (knot) or the
medieval Latin word rabiola (small turnip), all referring to the
round shape of the pasta wrapped around the filling. The last
suggestion is the one preferred by Giacomo Devoto, Italian
linguist and president – between 1963 and 1972 – of the
Accademia della Crusca, the institute for the protection and
study of the Italian language. Other sources suggest that the
name derives from raviggiolo, a cheese previously used in place
of ricotta as a filling. In this case the name of the filling would
eventually have come to describe any dumpling, regardless
of its stuffing. This interpretation was favoured by Piero
Camporesi, a professor at the University of Bologna between
1969 and 1996, and an expert in the social history of food and
nutrition.
Another typically Italian linguistic controversy relates
to the difference between Ligurian ravioli and Piedmontese
agnolotti. The different names could refer to different fillings
rather than to shapes, since green vegetables and cheese were
staples of the Ligurian diet while meat and eggs were very
prominent in the robust Piedmontese cooking. This interpre-
tation is supported by the definitions of ravioli and agnolotti
in the first dictionary of the Italian language, published in
1612 by the Accademia della Crusca. However, the origin of
32
The shape of Italian tortellini is thought to be inspired by Lucrezia Borgia’s
navel.
the name agnolotti could be either agnello (lamb), after the first
meat filling used in Piedmont, or anello (ring), after the
dumplings’ original shape as a circle.
Whatever the origins of the words used in different lan-
guages, dumplings are named and sometimes pictured in those
sources – which include commercial contracts, chronicles and
letters – that historians use to increase their understanding of
the society and traditions of the past.

Historical Records of Medieval

Italian Dumplings
Medieval Italian dumplings, particularly, pop up in a number
of historical documents that help to inform the debate about
the origins and evolution of this prominent food through the
everyday life of the so-called Dark Ages.
A visit to the chapel of Castel d’Appiano, near Bolzano in
northern Italy, reveals a thirteenth-century fresco depicting
the locally famous mangiatrice di canederli (dumpling eater),
which provides the earliest available record of this typical south
Tyrolean dish. The series of frescoes decorating the walls
of the chapel represents the life of Christ and the Apostles
in unmistakable Romanesque style, with a lack of perspective
amply compensated for by vibrant colours and the familiarity
of the depicted scenes. The Nativity scene consists of a typi-
cally two-dimensional representation of Mary and Joseph
having a well-deserved rest while the Christ Child is asleep
in the manger. Joseph sits at Mary’s feet, resting his head on
the palm of one hand and looking dreamy and contented.
Mary lies on her side with her back to the crib and the stylized
donkey and bull, turning her attention to a servant, the dump-
ling eater, who is cooking for the family. The servant, dressed
34
Thirteenth-century fresco in the chapel of Castel d’Appiano representing a
servant making canederli in a large pan.

in a green robe and yellow hair covering, is squatting by a pan

that is placed on a lively fire and is full to the brim with round,
appetising dumplings. The servant is pictured in the act of
tasting one of the dumplings by bringing it to her mouth
using a large fork. The type of dumpling represented in the
fresco is canederli, a large ball of dough made of stale bread
and milk with the addition of bacon, beetroot, fresh cheese,
spinach, mushrooms or even fruit, ricotta cheese and sugar,
boiled in broth or water. Canederli is also popular in Germany,
Austria and Switzerland, where it is called Knödel or Klösse. The
visit to the chapel can be combined with a stop at the nearby
tavern, which – in common with all the restaurants in the
region – includes dumplings among the local specialities on
its menu.
Ravioli is well-documented throughout the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries, and the town of Gavi in Piedmont claims
the honour of being its birthplace. (Gavi is not the only Italian
35
Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Land of Cockaigne, 1567, oil on panel, from
Boccaccio’s Decameron. Cockaigne was a mythical land of plenty.

town to make this claim.) Members of the Raviolo family were

said to have invented this dumpling and popularized it by
selling it to merchants and travellers at their locanda (public
house) in Gavi, on the way to the busy commercial port of
Genoa. The only ‘proof ’ for such a claim is the family’s coat
of arms, with its crude picture of a dumpling topped by
three stars.
That the raviolus was eaten in Parma before the end of the
thirteenth century is recorded by Fra Salimbene di Adam
(1221–c. 1290), also known as Fra Salimbene of Parma, in his
Cronica, an important source of information on the history
and traditions of the time. The Italian friar and historian wrote
that he had eaten ‘raviolos sine crusta de pasta’ (ravioli without a
pasta wrapping) during the celebrations of Santa Chiara,
which have commemorated the saint every year on 11 August
since her death in 1253. He also wrote that as ravioli in Parma
were smaller than those in Genoa and other Italian towns, they
were called raviolén (small ravioli). That probably later became
36
anolén, and might explain the origin of the word anolini, which
is used exclusively to describe filled dumplings from Parma
and its surrounding region.
The topic of size is encapsulated in a comic poem in the
Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan (s.q.o.viii, 38):

A very gallant son was granted to the raviolo because of

its good fortune, and that son is the anolino, a keen fol-
lower and lover of chicken broth. As for its appearance,
it resembles its own father, it is cut in the same way but
it has less body [referring to the thinner wrapper] and
better brain [the meat filling]. But as it remained small,
it ended up been called anolino [small dumpling].

Even Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–1375), a prominent figure

in the history of Italian literature and considered to be one
of the founders of Renaissance humanism, could not help
mentioning ravioli in his most famous work, the Decameron, a
medieval collection of 100 allegorical stories, narrated over ten
days and ten nights by seven young women and three young
men taking refuge from the Black Death epidemic in a villa
outside Naples. Boccaccio mentions ravioli in one of the best-
known of his tales (Decameron viii, 3), in which Calandrino,
a simple man who is the object of many practical jokes, is
convinced by his friends of the existence of a magical stone,
the heliotropia, that has the power of making the person who
carries it invisible. Calandrino is persuaded by his friends that
such a stone can be found in the paese del Bengodi (land of
plenty, known in English as Cockaigne), a land where food is
in abundance, the vineyards are tied to their supports with
strings of sausages rather than rope, and there is a mountain
of grated cheese on which ‘there were people who did noth-
ing other than prepare maccheroni and ravioli and cook them
37
 Etching after Louis
Philippe Boitard
(active 1738‒63)
representing a
dumpling seller
crying ‘diddle
diddle diddle
dumplens oh’,
from a late series
of the Cries of
London.

in a capon broth’. Of course, the mountain is also blessed by

the presence of a river of the best wine, without the hint of
a drop of water in it.
Such an abundance and variety of references confirm that
ravioli and other filled dumplings have been a staple of the
Italian diet for many centuries, served, as is the case today, as
a first-course alternative to the more internationally acclaimed
spaghetti, lasagne and maccheroni.

38
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
Virginia, who had recovered her composure in an instant, smiled
back at her.
“That’s all we could hope for, Mrs. Carter. I can put your name on
the program, then—and the song?”
Fanchon nodded, an elfish look in her eyes now.
“Oui, par example—I can sing anything?” she asked.
“Oh, sing something nice—it’s for the church, Fanchon!” said William
hastily.
“She means something nice,” said Virginia. “Of course—anything
you’ll give us,” she added, sweetly, drawing away a little.
Evidently she did not quite mean to go back to the house with them.
William saw it—and flushed again.
“You two were coming to call, weren’t you?” he asked bluntly.
Virginia glanced at her grandfather, and the colonel shook his head.
“Some other day. It’s”—he looked at his watch—“it’s near dinner-
time now, Jinny.”
She assented, and they drew away graciously. In spite of that first
happy moment when the impression seemed so good, there was
something wrong. William felt it. He glanced nervously at his wife,
but she was smiling. He had never seen her look more lovely or less
dangerous. He drew a long breath of relief and urged the Denbighs
to come soon.
“Some evening,” he suggested. “Father will be delighted to see you,
colonel, and Fanchon will sing for you both.”
“Then we’ll surely come soon,” said Virginia.
They managed to get away, and William had an uneasy feeling as he
saw them retreating toward their home. He was positive that they
had been coming to call. It all embarrassed him. It had been an
ordeal, and he had felt it keenly. He had always held a good opinion
of himself. The successful eldest son of the family, he had had the
éclat of his success at home; but to-day, face to face with Virginia,
he had felt—he grew hot all over at the thought of how he had felt.
His wife’s voice startled him.
“Are you going back to the house?” she asked in an odd tone.
He started, looking at her reluctantly.
“Why, yes, I was. Shall we walk a little way, instead?”
She shrugged, turning without a word and going back with him. At
another time he would have thought that there was something
strange about her, but to-day he did not notice. They walked quite a
distance without speaking. The silence was growing apparent when
Fanchon broke it.
“So that’s the girl who’s in love with you!” she said abruptly.
William reddened.
“Don’t say that!” he exclaimed hastily. “I never said that!”
She laughed, and he grew angry.
“Listen, Fanchon, I’ve got something to say to you!”
She gave him a sidelong look.
“Dis donc,” she said.
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke on the street. American girls never do
it.”
“Street?” Fanchon looked about her vacantly. “Ciel, do you call this a
street?”
“Yes, I do. It’s a street in my home town,” replied William doggedly.
“I’m sorry you don’t like it. We’ve got to live here, you know.”
“Here?” She looked at him now, her lip trembling. “Toujours?”
Suddenly she began to laugh, softly at first, and then wildly,
hysterically, dashing tears from her eyes.
William, nonplused, simply stared. He no longer understood her.
 VII
The difficulties of St. Luke’s Church had been very great. The interest
on the debt was heavily in arrears, and the Ladies’ Association,
selected from the active female members of the congregation, had
labored early and late to find its share of the money. There had been
fairs and tableaux and even Mrs. Jarley’s waxworks, but none of
these things had done more than collect a tax on the members of
the church. Outsiders had been absolutely shy, and the members
were beginning to find a hole in both sides of their pockets. They
made dainty articles for sale—splashers and whiskbroom holders and
aprons—and dressed dolls and baked cakes, and then went to the
bazaar and solemnly bought them back again. It had become a little
wearing on sensitive nerves and pocketbooks.
Finally, as a brilliant climax, old Mrs. Payson conceived the idea of a
concert that would be fine enough to coax the reluctant dollars from
the Presbyterians and the Baptists, the Methodists and the
Universalists and the Catholics—in fact, an entertainment that would
draw the town. The Sunday-school hall, a gift from Dr. Barbour’s
father, was large enough to seat almost a theater audience, and it
had a fine platform, furnished with footlights, and wide enough not
only for a grand piano but for a number of famous singers.
The question of paying the singers had, at first, staggered the
ladies, but Mr. Payson had finally come to their relief. As the
wealthiest member of the congregation, he usually had to make
good the deficiencies, and he proposed to pay for some first-class
performers if the ladies of the association would guarantee that they
could fill the hall at good prices—five dollars for the best seats, two-
fifty for the second best, and one dollar and fifty cents for children.
If they sold every seat at these rates, they could cover the deficit,
and Mr. Payson would escape another and heavier levy.
It was Virginia Denbigh who finally achieved it. She had taken hold
with the ardor of youth and the executive ability which Colonel
Denbigh proudly claimed was an attribute of his family. The thing
was done. The pianist, Caraffi, was engaged and one fine singer,
besides a first-rate orchestra from out of town.
“No one,” said Virginia, “will pay to hear our own people, even if
they play better.”
The wisdom of this diagnosis of the popular sentiment was
demonstrated by the sale of tickets. As the night drew near, it
became apparent that not a seat would be vacant. The invitation to
young Mrs. William Carter was a brilliant coup. The town was
anxious to see her and to hear her; the announcement that she
would sing—probably a French ballad—had rushed the last seats up
to a premium. For William Carter’s sudden marriage abroad had
aroused no small amount of gossip.
The hall began to fill early. Virginia Denbigh, who had come down
with her grandfather, glanced over it with a thrill of pleasure.
“We’re going to make it,” she said softly, “every cent! Look, grandpa,
they’re selling the last seats for five dollars—away back, too!”
“Scandalous!” retorted the colonel. “Can’t see a thing there but the
top of Mrs. Payson’s bonnet, and there’ll be a draft from the door.
You’ve got no conscience, Jinny. Make them sell those for a dollar.”
She laughed, patting his arm.
“You go and take your seat; I’ve got to be back in the reception-
room to meet the singers.”
The old man nodded, making his way to a front seat, and looking
about him interestedly as he went.
The congregation was there in force, with the rector and his wife
well down in front; but, for the first time in the history of their
church entertainments, the rest of the townspeople appeared there,
too. Colonel Denbigh counted three ministers and half a dozen
deacons. The black coats and white neckties were well forward, and
there were three old ladies, patrons of the church, already seated,
with their ear trumpets at their ears. On the rear benches the young
people were congregated, and, as the hall filled, the young men of
the town stood about in groups in the aisles and behind the last
seats.
But it was a very solemn gathering, after all.
“Sunday-school meeting,” thought the colonel. “Hard-shelled Baptists
and Methodists on one side, and High-church Episcopalians and
Roman Catholics on the other. Needs something a little sprightly to
make ’em sit up and take notice. I wonder——”
He looked about him curiously, and then he saw Mr. Carter going
slowly down the aisle, followed by his wife and Emily.
“Hello!” said the colonel. “Didn’t expect such luck. You’ve got the
seat next to me, Mrs. Carter. How are you, Emily?” He glanced
rather sharply at the girl as he spoke, startled by her unusual
appearance, for Emily’s white eyelashes were now a dark brown,
and her nose was whitened. “Bless my soul!” thought the colonel,
and then, to Mr. Carter: “Where’s William and his pretty wife?”
“William isn’t coming,” Mr. Carter replied shortly, seating himself
heavily and feeling of his necktie. “He’s at home, smoking a pipe
with Dan. His wife”—Mr. Carter glanced at the lighted platform, filled
with a grand piano and many palms—“I suppose she’s coming. She
started with Leigh half an hour ago. He’s bringing her.”
“Humph!”
The colonel tried to think of something more to say, but Mrs. Payson
relieved him. She fluttered across the aisle.
“Dear Mrs. Carter, we’re all crazy to hear your new daughter sing!
Judge Jessup says she’s got a lovely voice.”
Mrs. Carter smiled tremulously and blushed.
“Yes,” she said faintly, but with some pride in her voice. “The judge
heard her the other night. She’s—she’s coming with Leigh.”
As she spoke there was a flutter and stir in the audience, and Mrs.
Payson retreated hastily to a front seat. Judge Jessup had just
appeared on the platform with a tall, thin man who wore an
immaculate dress-suit and displayed an amazing head of black hair.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge in his deep bass, “it’s my
duty and my pleasure to introduce the great pianist, Signor Caraffi.”
Colonel Denbigh led the applause, and for a moment it was
deafening. The pianist, thrusting one hand in the front of his white
satin waistcoat, bowed low. Judge Jessup discreetly withdrew into
the shadow of the palms where—at intervals—the audience glimpsed
white skirts and pink skirts and blue skirts, and two or three amazing
pairs of feet skirmishing behind the foliage and between the
substantial green tubs. But even these things became less diverting
when the hirsute gentleman began to play.
“Oh, how wonderful!” breathed Mrs. Carter with relief.
Colonel Denbigh nodded.
“Looks like a hair-restorer advertisement,” he replied gently; “but he
can play. I reckon it’s genius that makes his hair grow!”
It certainly looked like genius, for he was really a great pianist. For a
while he held the audience spellbound. Splendid music filled their
ears and, in some cases at least, stirred their souls. Even the more
frivolous listeners forgot to make fun of the huge, shaggy head as it
bent and swayed and nodded while the pianist forgot himself and
forgot the world in his conflict with the instrument—a conflict that
always left him supremely master of heavenly harmonies.
Back in the little room behind the platform, Virginia listened and
forgot that she was worn out with superintending it all; forgot that
she still had her anxieties, and would have them until the last
number was successfully rendered, for Mrs. William Carter was next
on the bill, and Mrs. Carter had not come. Not yet! Virginia was
waiting for her, much against her will, for there were two or three
operatic strangers waiting also, and that intolerable man Corwin,
Caraffi’s manager.
Virginia was aware of him, aware of his sleek good looks and his
watchful eyes. Finding them fixed in her direction, she turned her
shoulder toward him, and was thus the first to see the arrival of
Fanchon and Leigh. They came in softly, Fanchon on tiptoe, listening
to Caraffi, and Leigh laden with her wraps and her music-roll, his
young, flushed face turned adoringly toward his sister-in-law.
Virginia could not blame him. It seemed to her that the girl—she
looked no more than seventeen or eighteen—was wonderfully pretty.
For Fanchon had stopped just inside the door, where the light fell full
upon her, and was listening, her head a little bent and her finger on
her lips. She had given her wrap to Leigh, and stood there, a shining
little figure, in white and silver, much décolleté, her slender arms and
her lovely young throat unornamented. Her gown—a Parisian thing,
Virginia thought—clung to her in a wonderful way, like the shining
calyx of a flower; and yet it floated, too, when she moved. Her
dusky hair, her wonderful dark eyes, and the piquant little face,
needed no better frame than the glimpse of starry night in the open
door behind her and the glimmer of shaded lights overhead.
Virginia went forward.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said softly. “Your number is the next
one, Mrs. Carter.”
Fanchon turned to answer, putting out a small, bejeweled hand,
confident and smiling, a sparkling little creature. Then suddenly
there came a change. She stopped short and stood motionless. She
scarcely seemed to breathe. It was as if some force stronger than
her will had arrested her.
Watching her face, Virginia felt the shock of it, without knowing
what it was—fear or hate, or a mingling of both. But Fanchon’s eyes
were fixed on Corwin, and they were no longer soft. It was not the
look of a wild fawn, but of a tigress at bay. Something within, some
feeling as strong as it was extraordinary, transformed her. For an
instant she seemed to flinch, then she stood facing him.
The man, turning as suddenly, saw her. He jumped to his feet.
“Fanchon la Fare!” he exclaimed, and came toward her, speaking
rapidly in French.
Virginia turned away. She did not want to listen, but she heard an
exclamation from Fanchon, and saw her leave Corwin standing, an
odd look on his face.
Leigh, who had been busy with the wraps, turned, saw the meeting
and Fanchon’s face. He dropped his burden and crossed over to her
quickly.
“What did he say to you, Fanchon?” he panted. “If he was rude to
you, I’ll—I’ll thrash him!”
Fanchon laughed a wild little laugh.
“Dear boy!” she said softly, and stroked his hand. “Je t’adore!”
Leigh flushed, his lowering gaze fastened angrily on Corwin, and
Virginia drew a breath of relief when she heard the applause
outside. Caraffi had given them a cheery encore; he was coming off
the platform, and Fanchon must go on. Virginia called to her softly.
“Now, please, Mrs. Carter!” she said.
Fanchon turned and looked at her, saw by her face that Virginia had
seen too much, and her eyes blazed with anger. She took a step
forward and snatched up her music-roll, running her fingers over the
leaves and biting her lip.
“Tell them to play this, please,” she said, with her head up.
Without looking at it, Virginia took it to the director of the orchestra,
glad to escape the little scene. It seemed to her that the air was
charged, and she knew that the wait had been too long already. She
could hear the impatient stir outside.
There was, indeed, a little stir of impatience in the hall. Two or three
young ushers went up and down the aisles with pitchers of iced
water, and the rear seats began to fill up with gentlemen who were
eating cloves. The rest of the audience studied the program,
expectant. “No. 2, Mrs. William Carter, solo,” appeared on it in fine
type.
“My daughter-in-law’s going to sing next,” said Mr. Carter,
remembering the broken engagement and putting out a feeler.
“Seen her yet, colonel?”
“Saw her the other day.” The colonel clasped the top of his cane,
leaning on it, and looking absently at an amazing pair of feet and
ankles that he saw approaching from behind the palms. “She’s
mighty pretty.”
“Think so?” Mr. Carter smiled. “Notice her eyes? Something fawn-like
about them—and velvety. We’ve got to calling her—among
ourselves, of course—‘the wild fawn.’”
At this moment one of the old ladies behind them interrupted. She
tapped Mr. Carter’s shoulder with her fan.
“I do like music,” she said in a loud whisper. “It’s so churchy. I can’t
hear much, but I feel it down my spine. Now, tableaux—well,
sometimes they’re not just the thing, but music for the church, it’s—
it’s safe!”
Colonel Denbigh, overhearing, pulled his mustache. His ear had
caught the first notes of a piece that was not “churchy”; it was far
too light and too fantastic.
“The kind of tune that makes a fellow sit up and take notice,” the
colonel thought. “I wonder——”
He got no farther before he was drowned in applause. A small,
graceful, shimmering figure had slipped out from behind the palms.
Fanchon stood in the center of the stage, her slender arms raised
and her hands clasped behind her head, her eyes bent downward,
the shadowy hair framing a low, white brow, her red lips slightly
parted. If she heard the applause, she did not heed it. She made no
response; she only waited.
Then, as the soft, seductive strains began to fill the hall with music,
she began to sing—softly at first, then rising note by note until her
clear soprano floated upward like the song of a bird. Then, just as
the tension seemed to relax and a deep sigh of pleasure came from
the most anxious of the audience, she began to dance.
Still singing, she danced wonderfully, strangely, wildly. Her skirt,
clinging and shimmering and floating at the edges, clung to her. It
unfolded like a flower as she stepped, and folded again about her
slender ankles, above the marvel of her dancing feet. She swayed
lightly from side to side, her slender body the very embodiment of
grace and motion, as her dancing seemed to be the interpretation of
the music, subtle, seductive, wonderful. So might the daughter of
Herodias have danced before Herod Antipas!
Breathless, the good people in the front rows stared. Movement was
impossible, every sense seemed suspended, everything but the
sensation of amazement. Mrs. Carter looked in a frightened way at
her husband and caught the twinkle in Colonel Denbigh’s eye. Then
she saw her rector mop his forehead with his handkerchief, and she
raised her shamed eyes to the stage. Fanchon was pirouetting on
one toe! Applause had started in the back rows, among the black
sheep, and was running down the side aisles like a prairie-fire when
Mr. Carter abruptly rose.
“Excuse me,” he said roughly to Colonel Denbigh as he clambered
over him. “I—I’ve forgotten something!”
Mrs. Carter half rose and then sank back, pulled down by Emily, but
she seemed to hear, through the spluttering applause, her husband’s
crashing exit.
It might be said that Mr. Carter had the effect of a stone thrown
from an ancient catapult, he went with such bounds and rushes. For
a stout man his performance was little short of miraculous. He
covered the distance to his own door in ten minutes, got out his
latch-key, found the key-hole unerringly in the dark, went in, and
banged the door to with a violence that made the ornaments on the
hall mantel rattle.
The hall was vacant, but he saw a stream of light coming out of the
library, and headed violently for it. William was alone, huddled in an
easy chair, smoking and reading. Mr. Carter came in and shut the
door. Then he advanced on his son with a face of thunder.
“William Henry Carter,” said he, “you’ve married a dancer—a French
dancer!”
William, overtaken by the unexpected, laid down his book and
stared. But his father only roared the louder. He seemed to think
that his son had grown suddenly deaf.
“Do you hear me, sir?” he bellowed fiercely. “You’ve married a—a
dyed-in-the-wool ballet-dancer!”
 VIII
It was an hour later when Miranda, looking very dark and showing
the whites of her eyes to an alarming extent, opened the front door
for Mrs. Carter, Emily and Leigh.
“Mist’ Carter says, please, ma’am, yo’ come inter de libr’ry,” said the
colored servitress in a sympathetic undertone.
Mrs. Carter cast an apprehensive look at her daughter.
“I guess you two had better go up-stairs,” she whispered.
Emily nodded, and started for the staircase, but Mr. Carter shouted
from the library:
“I hear you-all out there—come in here!”
They went. Leigh, having forgotten to put down Fanchon’s extra
wraps, brought up the rear, his flushed face just appearing above a
mass of chiffon, lace and fur.
Mr. Carter, striding up and down the room alone, caught sight of his
youngest son first.
“Put down those things!” he shouted. “You look like a dromedary.”
Leigh obeyed, but he straightened himself and stood, sullenly, his
eyes on the ground. His father took no further notice of him.
“I’d like to know if any of you knew what that girl was going to do
to-night?” he demanded fiercely.
Mrs. Carter sank weakly into the nearest chair.
“No, we didn’t! Wasn’t it awful? I was so mortified. The Baptist
minister went out just after you, Johnson, and the rector was as red
as could be. I’m sure I don’t know what he thought!”
“Thought! Where is she?”
“William came for her, and took her out to supper at the inn,” said
Emily in a weak voice.
Like Leigh she stood back, unsympathetic, but she was a little
frightened, too.
“Humph! Took her out to supper, eh?” Mr. Carter thundered. “I
reckon he thought he’d better! I gave him a piece of my mind.”
“Oh, papa! He was as white as a sheet.” William’s mother pressed
her handkerchief against her shaking lips. “He didn’t know, of
course. He wasn’t to blame, dear—you shouldn’t have done it!”
“Wasn’t to blame?” Mr. Carter blazed with wrath. “Didn’t he marry
that ballet-dancer? Didn’t he bring a French ballet-dancer home here
and foist her on a decent, respectable family? He wasn’t to blame,
you say? By Jove, I wish he was small enough to thrash!”
He was still walking up and down. As he swung around, Leigh faced
him.
“She’s a lovely creature!” the boy cried passionately. “That dance
was beautiful—everybody thought so!”
“Oh, Leigh!” gasped his mother. “Dr. Fanshawe was ashamed to look
at it!”
“Old idiot!” cried Leigh. “You’re all making her unhappy—any one
can see it. Nothing but criticism from morning until night—I call it
cruel!”
Mr. Carter stared at him a moment in amazed incredulity. Then he
jeered.
“Hear, hear!” he cried. “Wisdom from the mouths of babes and
sucklings! Do you want to marry a ballet-dancer, too, sir?”
But his son’s blood was up.
“I call it a burning shame!” he cried. “She’s come here, a foreigner,
and she wants to love us, and you’re talking brutally about her. She’s
exquisite, she was to-night, she——”
“Go to bed!” shouted Mr. Carter. “Shut up and go to bed!”
Mrs. Carter rose hastily and gave Leigh a little shove.
“Go!” she whispered. “There, there—don’t aggravate papa.”
Leigh, shaking with anger, yielded ground reluctantly.
“She’s an angel!” he shouted at the door. “I won’t have her abused!”
“Did you marry her!” Mr. Carter asked with fine sarcasm. “Maybe I’ve
made a mistake; I thought it was William.”
Leigh almost choked with indignation.
“He isn’t here—I won’t have her talked about.”
“Go to bed!” thundered Mr. Carter, taking a step forward.
“I——” Leigh began to sputter again, but his mother thrust him out
and shut the door.
“Do speak lower, Johnson,” she sobbed. “I know Miranda listens.”
“I don’t care a hang whether Miranda listens or not,” said Mr. Carter.
“That boy’s an ass—talk about his being a genius!”
“Oh, papa, he’s only eighteen,” said Mrs. Carter deprecatingly, “and
she’s made up to him from the very first.”
“He’s an ass!” repeated Mr. Carter. “And I guess the whole town
knows I’ve got a ballet-dancer——”
He stopped; his eye had suddenly lighted on Emily. She was huddled
in a frightened attitude behind her mother’s chair, and the light was
strong on her face. Her father stared.
“What’s the matter with that child’s eyes?” he demanded suddenly.
“They look like burnt holes in a blanket!”
Mrs. Carter, following his look, suddenly noticed her daughter’s
eyelashes and nose. In an illuminating flash she remembered that
first night in Emily’s room.
“Oh, Emmy!” she gasped. “You’ve painted your eyelashes!”
Emily clung to the back of her chair.
“I had to, mama. They’re horrid and white.”
“Good Lord, that minx is teaching my daughter to paint her face!
Mama, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Can’t you watch your
own children?” bellowed Mr. Carter, beside himself.
“Emmy, I’m ashamed!” Poor Mrs. Carter sat gasping, her mouth
open. “I never dreamed—what’s that on your nose?”
Emily seized her handkerchief and began to rub the offending
feature.
“It’s nothing, mama—just a little liquid powder.”
“You march up-stairs and wash your face!” said her father. “Hear
me? Don’t let me catch you painting up like that—singing doll!”
Emily began to cry.
“It’s—it’s nothing, papa. Everybody does it. The girls think I look so
nice.”
“Wash your face!” shouted her father. “March up and wash your
face!”
“I don’t want to!” sobbed Emily. “The girls say my eyes look twice as
——”
Mr. Carter seized her by the shoulder and turned her toward the
door.
“Want me to wash your face?” he asked her grimly. “No? I thought
not. Well, then, you march!”
Emily, sobbing loudly, marched. They could hear her stumbling up-
stairs, crying as she went.
“Oh, papa, you were awful!” Mrs. Carter wiped her own eyes. “The
poor child!”
“Do you suppose that I’m going to let my daughter paint her face?”
Mr. Carter fairly bellowed. “I reckon I’ve got enough in a daughter-
in-law! I’ll see to Emmy myself, if you can’t!”
“Johnson, you know I didn’t notice.”
Mr. Carter emitted another roar, and finally threw himself into a chair
and thrust his feet out.
“What did that fool William do?”
“You mean to-night?” Mrs. Carter dried her eyes. “He just met us at
the door. He was so white he scared me, and he took Fanchon off in
a taxi—in that scandalous dress! Said he’d give her a supper out to-
night. I’m afraid you’ve done it this time, Johnson. What did you do
to the poor boy?”
“Poor donkey! I told him what I thought of that woman—called by
my name, too—a woman dressing like one of those yellow East
Indian dancing-girls—that’s what I told him.”
“Johnson!”
“I did! What do you s’pose the congregation thought? By George, it
made me hot all over. Did you see her legs?”
“You mean her stockings? They were a little startling. I told her so
before we started.”
“Startling? My word.”
Mr. Carter relapsed into a terrible silence. Mrs. Carter sat helplessly
looking at him. She was thinking of that dance, that terrible,
amazing, dazzling dance. What a pretty creature, too! That was it;
she had turned William’s head; and Leigh’s and Emily’s, too. Those
painted eyelashes! For a moment Mrs. Carter half laughed.
“It’s funny—I can’t help it, Johnson,” she said, feebly apologetic, as
she met his irate eyes. “I was thinking of Emmy trying to paint her
lashes.”
“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” he retorted hoarsely. “Don’t see the
joke myself. I’ve got too much daughter-in-law, that’s my trouble!”
“Hush! There’s some one now—they’ve come!” Mrs. Carter tiptoed to
the door and listened, coming back, relieved. “No, it’s only Dan.”
“I wish William had Dan’s sense!”
“I wish Dan would marry a nice home girl. It would make things
better,” sighed Mrs. Carter.
“Daniel marry?” Mr. Carter raised his voice again to a roar of
discontent and hopelessness. “Who d’you think Dan could marry?
What kind of a girl d’you think would pick a cripple?”
“Hush!”
Mrs. Carter, very pale, rose and shut the door; but she was too late.
Daniel, suspecting the trouble in the library, had started for his own
room. The stairs were just outside the library door, however, and he
could not help hearing every word his father said. In fact, Mr.
Carter’s irate voice rang out like a trumpet. “What kind of a girl d’you
think would pick a cripple?”
Daniel, clinging to the banisters, ascended more wearily than usual.
The stairs turned at the landing, and he was out of sight when his
mother shut the door. He never used a cane in the house now. He
was well enough to get along with a heavy limp, and he made no
noise as he crossed the upper hall and went into his own room.
Once there, he locked his door, and, crossing to the window, stood
staring out with absorbed and thoughtful eyes.
The night was perfect. A young moon had set, and there seemed to
be, instead, a myriad of stars. He could discern, too, even in the
darkness, the darker profile of the hills, and, nearer at hand, the
clustering beauty of foliage, pierced here and there with the lights of
near-by houses, which shone in the darkness, without any
discernible outlines behind them, like fallen stars. The air was
fragrant and soft, with the sweetness of flowering grapes, familiar
and homelike, amid all that blended early blossoming.
He could hear soft, blurred sounds, too—the hum of insect life, the
piping of frogs, the murmur of the brook that flowed not a hundred
yards away. He stood motionless, thinking, and glad of the cool night
air on his hot cheeks and brow. He felt as if some one had dealt him
a physical blow, and his bruised flesh was still quivering under it.
“What kind of a girl d’you think would pick a cripple?”
Daniel shut his lips sharply over his clenched teeth. It wasn’t a new
idea; it wasn’t even a suggestion. He had known it all along, he told
himself, and yet the bare words were brutal. They seemed to brand
him like hot iron, to shrivel into his shrinking flesh and leave the
mark there.
“Cripple!” He remembered, in a flash, his well days—the days when
he was like other boys, before the fall which lamed him. He
remembered his own young scorn of the weakling and the maimed,
the repugnance that the physically strong often feel toward the
physically disabled. Yet there was nothing disfiguring in his trouble.
He was lame, but he was not twisted; he only halted in his walk.
But, none the less, he was a cripple.
“What kind of a girl d’you think would pick a cripple?”
Daniel stared steadily out into the night, as if the starry darkness
held the answer. One by one he saw the lights go out in the houses
near at hand. Farther off, lights still shone in the town but darkness
grew and grew. Then, far off, he detected a moving thing, saw a
leap of flame and sparks as the smoke belched from the funnel of
the engine. He could trace it coming nearer and nearer, and then he
heard the clamor of its bell at the crossing, strangely distinct at
night.
He turned slowly away, lit the lamp on his table, and, going to his
desk, took out the picture of Virginia that he had stolen from the
mantel down-stairs after Fanchon’s attack upon it. He brought it to
the table, and, setting it down beside him, began to write. From
time to time, as he wrote, he glanced up at the young face in the
frame, and felt an exquisite sense of companionship. He was not
alone; the picture kept him company. The pallor of his face, too,
gradually changed, and a slight color rose in his cheeks. He took off
his coat and lit his pipe. Well into the small hours he worked steadily
on a case for Judge Jessup.
He was aware of doors shutting below, aware that sounds gradually
ceased and sleep drenched the household, but he worked on with
the passionate zeal that only an ambitious man can feel—a man who
has no other end in life but to forget himself in the fury of his toil.
Yet, all the while, the young face of Virginia bore him mute
company, and sometimes it seemed to smile upon him.
At daybreak, the fury of his thirst for work slaked, he lifted a
haggard face to the light, glanced at the picture, and stretching his
arms across the table laid his head upon them with a groan. He fell
asleep there from sheer exhaustion and was sleeping when the sun
rose.
 IX
William Carter took his wife to the inn for supper. He had appeared
at the door of the Sunday-school hall with a taxi and abruptly
bundled Fanchon into it. It was just after her performance on the
stage and before the audience began to disperse. In fact, they heard
the strains of some very churchy music coming from the orchestra,
as if an effort was being made—delayed but strenuous—to soothe
the startled spectators of Fanchon’s amazing dance.
William said nothing. He sat in the dark interior of the taxi with a
face as white as paper, and Fanchon, watching him covertly, saw
that the hand he laid on the window shook. She leaned back in her
corner, twisting a strand of pearls around her throat—a strand that
she had put on after the dance—and watching him; but she said
nothing.
She had danced so wildly, indeed, that she was still panting and
throbbing with excitement. She seemed to feel the thrill of the music
even in her feet. It was intoxicating, it was what she loved—the
glamour of the lights, the music, the motion. Her whole body
vibrated, she could scarcely sit still, her feet still moved restlessly.
She loved it!
Yet she felt that heavy silence of her husband, the stiffness of his
body as he sat there, and she had caught a glimpse of his ghastly
face. She bit her lips, staring out into the night, her bosom heaving
passionately. She felt like a beautiful wild bird in a trap.
She stared, too, at the quiet street, with inveterate dislike of its
quietness. She saw the group of loungers in front of the chemist’s,
the belated pedestrians at the crossing. There was a glimpse of
shadowing trees. Pendent branches swept and swayed before feebly
lighted show-windows, where the shades were partly drawn down,
and the infrequent street-lamps shot occasional lances of light across
their dingy way. One such shaft struck on William’s profile and
revealed his tightened lips.
Fanchon wondered. She had not been aware of Mr. Carter’s
catapultic exit, and she did not know how much her husband knew.
Some one must have telephoned him—whom, she could not
conjecture. She shrank away from him a little, thinking, and Corwin’s
face rose before her mind’s eye. She saw again the confidence of his
smiling, mocking eyes, and she shuddered.
William seemed to feel it and gave her a quick look, but said
nothing. The taxi had stopped in front of an old-fashioned inn. It
was a long, low building with a glassed-in dining-room, built to
accommodate the stream of motorists who had begun to tour the
mountains and scatter gold and gasoline in their wake.
Into the new dining-room—a plain, bare place with rows of white-
covered tables and a few lean palms on pedestals—William
conducted his wife. Half a dozen negro waiters came forward. He
selected one he knew, chose a remote table, and gave his order for
supper.
“I suppose you want wine?” he said shortly to Fanchon—almost the
first words he had addressed to her.
She shrugged, slipping off her wraps and amazing the other diners
with the marvels of her costume.
“Mais non,” she replied indifferently. “I’m heated; I never drink wine
when I have danced.”
William, who was giving his order, stopped short a moment, his eyes
down, and she saw him pant like a man short of breath. But in
another moment he had despatched the waiter with his order and
drained his glass of water.
“Mon Dieu!” said Fanchon, watching him with dark, mysterious,
brooding eyes. “How can you? Iced water—it’s bad for your liver!”
“Drat my liver!” said William hoarsely. Then he leaned across the
table, his eyes raised to hers at last and spoke in a low, even voice
for her ears alone. “What have you been doing, Fanchon?”
She had never seen that look in his eyes before, and the blood
rushed back to her heart. She could not answer for a moment; her
lips moved without words.
“Do you hear?” he repeated sternly. “What have you been doing to-
night?”
“I sang, you know I sang,” she replied at last, but her eyes quivered
and shrank away from his, and there was something about her like a
child expecting a blow.
But William did not heed it; he was still white with passion.
“You did more than sing,” he rejoined coldly. “You danced me into an
insult!”
Her eyes dilated.
“An insult—you?”
“Yes, an insult. Father saw you. He came home and told me what he
thought of you, and of me for letting you do it!”
Fanchon put her hand to her throat. She felt choked again, but her
beautiful, wild, fawn-like eyes clung to his face.
“You danced,” he went on bitterly. “What did you dance? One of
those—those fandangoes?”
Her face changed; a glimmer of light, of mischief, shot across it, and
she let her jeweled hands drop in her lap.
“Oui, I danced! Mais que voulez vous? Am I not a dancer? You—it is
you who are ashamed, mon ami!” she added bitterly. “Why you
marry me, then?”
He threw himself back in his chair, his clenched hand falling on the
table with a gesture as poignant as it was desperate.
“You’ve let the cat out of the bag! This place—these provincials!
Why, this place is full of it by now. Did you think you were in Paris?”
“In Paris?” she laughed wildly. “Mon Dieu, non! ‘O Paris, c’est chez
toi qu’il est doux de vivre, c’est chez toi que je veux mourir!’”
“Drop that chatter!” he said harshly. “You speak English as well as I
do.”
She did not answer for a moment; then she leaned across the table,
looking at him, her face white and her eyes sparkling.
“You’re ashamed that you married me, a dancer—n’est-ce-pas?”
He averted his face. She caught only the haggard whiteness of the
profile, and she saw his hand, stretched on the table, clench and
unclench nervously. She drew a long breath.
“You’re ashamed of me,” she said in a low, quivering voice, recoiling
from him. “I—I see it!”
“I loved you,” said William passionately. “I loved you, I asked you to
consider me, and—you do this!”
“You loved me!” she repeated the words slowly. “You—loved—me!”
She let the accent fall on the past tense, but he was deaf to the
implied appeal.
“Fanchon, you knew what they’d think of it here—you must have
known. Why did you do it?” he cried impatiently. “It’s like your
cigarette in the streets—you like to do these things!”
“Mais oui, I like to do them!” she replied softly. She laughed lightly.
“I’m naughty, William, but”—she leaned toward him again, looking at
him with her fawn-like eyes—“I’m sorry!”
Her look, her voice, her very attitude expressed surrender, and the
softness of her tone appeased him. He turned his head reluctantly
and looked at her. The light was behind her, making a nimbus behind
her lovely head, her soft, dark hair, and her white forehead, and the
beauty of her eyes. Her dress, too, the dancer’s silky, shimmering,
clinging robe, seemed to reveal just enough of her white neck and
arms. She was a thing so young, so exquisite, and so subtly
charming that he caught his breath. She looked as she had looked
the first time he saw her, when he lost his heart and his head. Her
dark eyes clung to his. “Et toi?” she murmured softly, exquisitely, her
lips trembling a little.
Involuntarily he put out his hand and touched hers as it lay on the
table, and the tenderness of that touch was a caress. For the
moment he forgot his father and his own anger. She was bewitching,
and she was his own! What did it matter if these narrow-minded
provincials were shocked at her dancing?
Yet he was aware that while she accepted his caress, accepted his
forgiveness, and gave him a soft and caressing smile, she was
changed. Something had come between them—something so subtle,
so immaterial, that he could not grasp it; but he felt ill at ease. He
said nothing, he did not know what to say, he felt that the grievance
was honestly his, and yet, in some mysterious, unfathomable way,
she had put him in the wrong.
He laughed uneasily and began to move the glasses about
awkwardly, jingling the ice in them like a child. He was glad, too,
that the waiter returned at that moment, with the supper. He
changed his order again and called for wine.
“I’m tired,” he explained to Fanchon. “I feel as if I needed it.”
She shrugged, elevating her brows and glancing around the room,
aware that necks were craned here and there, and that some
newcomers were staring steadily at her. One of them—a short, stout,
bald-headed man in a dress-suit with a wide expanse of shirt-front—
kept gazing at her, and after a while at William. He gazed and
rubbed the top of his bald head, and then ate—taking large
mouthfuls and gulping them down—while he still gazed at her.
Fanchon, seeing it, looked demurely at her plate, toying with her
fork. She wanted to laugh, but she remembered her husband’s
horror of the sensation she had just made, and she was aware, too,
of another figure farther away. She flushed a little, saying nothing,
and William, still feeling that little rift in the lute, busied himself
filling his wine-glass again.
Fanchon, who had never seen him drink wine, lifted her heavy eyes
from her plate to watch him. She knew he had already filled his
glass four times.
“He’s not a drinking man,” she thought shrewdly. “He’s unhappy
because he’s married me, a dancer!”
William lifted his fifth glass slowly to his lips.
“It’s not bad wine, Fanchon,” he said lightly; “but we had better in
Paris.”
She shook her head.
“In Paris you didn’t drink wine, mon ami.”
He reddened.
“Didn’t I? I——” He stopped short.
The stout, bald-headed gentleman had risen abruptly from his table
and was approaching theirs. He did not look at William, but bowed
to Fanchon.
“Mrs. Carter, I believe?” he said suavely. “Mrs. William Carter?”
Fanchon smiled.
“Mais oui, and—Mr. William Carter,” she added archly, looking at the
astonished William.
The fat man bowed again, then he produced a card-case and laid his
card on the table.
“I’m Samuel Bernstein,” he said proudly, “president of the Unlimited
Film Company. Perhaps you’ve heard of me, Mr. Carter?”
“No!” said William shortly, frowning. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Mr. Bernstein gave him a pitying glance.
“Go to the movies?” he asked mildly.
William nodded.
“Sometimes.”
Mr. Bernstein elevated his brows. He looked at Fanchon, and his face
changed and glowed with appreciation.
“Guess you go, madam,” he said in a confident tone, “a lady of your
talent! Excuse me”—he bowed first to one and then the other—“if
you’ll permit me, I’ll sit down. I’ve got a word to say—business, you
know, strictly business.”
Fanchon’s eyes danced. She threw a mocking look at William’s
stiffening face.
“Sit down, Mr. Bernstein,” she said sweetly. “Voilà! I love the
movies!”
“There!” Bernstein beamed, drawing up a chair. “I knew a lady of
your talent must love ’em.” He waved his hand gracefully, speaking
to William now, but including William’s wife. “I want to say, sir, that I
witnessed that dance to-night, and—well, sir, it hit me straight in the
bull’s-eye! Never saw it better done—never! I congratulate Mrs.
Carter, sir, and I congratulate you. It was a gem!”
William, very red, inclined his head stiffly, but Fanchon was radiant
with smiles.
“Merci du compliment!” she murmured.
“Eh? Oh, you’re French, ain’t you?” Mr. Bernstein returned her smile
genially. “Corwin was telling me you were Mamselle Fonchon lay
Fare. That would sound a top-liner, too, on a bill-board. Corwin—you
know him? Yes? Well, he’s running a vaudeville show somewhere
now, besides that hairy piano man, and he wants you in his show. I
suspicioned that right off.”
“My wife isn’t a show-woman!” thundered William, his brow black.
“No offense, no offense, Mr. Carter!” Mr. Bernstein waved a fat hand
on which a diamond flashed magnificently. “I don’t cotton to these
cheap shows myself. Now, madam, I’m a business man, and I’ve got
a proposition to make to you, a gilt-edged proposition.” He edged his
chair nearer, looking from Fanchon to William and back again, with
the air of a benefactor. “It’ll appeal to you, sir. It’s dignified, it’s fine,
and it’s money, sir, good money! Now, I saw that dance to-night and
I says to myself, ‘Sammy Bernstein, if you’re a man you’ll beat it
after that first thing,’ and I’m beating it. Madam, I’d offer you, as a
starter, five hundred dollars a week to give that dance in a picture, a
high-class, six-reel picture, for the Unlimited Film Company!” Mr.
Bernstein flung himself back in his chair, thrust his thumbs into the
armholes of his white waistcoat, and beamed upon them. “Five
hundred dollars a week, madam, and your expenses—for one
picture. You can’t beat that—Corwin ain’t going to beat that!”
“My wife won’t go into the movies!” said William, white with anger.
Mr. Bernstein reddened.
“I reckon you don’t understand, sir. The Unlimited Film Company is a
star company, sir; it does the finest pictures in the country; we’ve
got more stars than any other company this side of the Rockies. We
got ’em, and we treat ’em right.”
William rose furiously.
“My wife isn’t looking for an engagement, sir, so we bid you good
evening!”
Mr. Bernstein rose hastily.
“I say—no offense——”
“You’re very good,” said Fanchon softly, lingering an instant as
William strode away; “I’m not in it—not now! My husband doesn’t
like it, you know. Adieu, monsieur, et merci!”
She was smiling, a little flushed, altogether charming, as she lifted
her fawn-like countenance to his red face. Mr. Bernstein relaxed and
grinned knowingly.
“I see! I’m sorry, madam. Put my foot in it, eh?” He lowered his
voice. “I’ll make it eight hundred a week—see?”
She nodded, but William had turned a white face toward them, and
she fled lightly, following him in his hasty stride through the now
crowded dining-room. She had caught her wraps up hastily and
thrown them about her shoulders, and the chiffon frills framed her
small, pointed chin.
The diners—belated motorists and traveling salesmen—stared
delightedly. The scene was as plain as a charade, the angry young
husband and the lovely, coquettish, frivolous young wife. Fanchon
caught whispers of admiration and glances of sympathy. At another
moment they would have pleased her, would have appealed to every
instinct of her light, admiration-loving nature, but to-night she saw
some one ahead, some one whom she must pass, and she was
thinking, thinking hard and fast, her heart beating pitifully under the
splendor of her dancing dress.
Meanwhile William stalked ahead, with his square jaw set and his
eyes stormy. He wanted to wring Bernstein’s neck and he could not.
It made his hands clench and unclench nervously at his sides.
As they neared the door, a tall man rose from a crowded table and
greeted Fanchon in French with an effusion that made William halt.
Corwin caught his eye and bowed.
“Present me to your husband,” he said to Fanchon.
She turned with that delicate grace which made her small figure
seem so light and buoyant. She had rallied all her forces, all her will.
She smiled, her eyes shining dangerously.
“William, this is my old friend, Mr. Corwin.”
William shook hands stiffly.
“We’re just going,” he said shortly. “Good night!”
Fanchon laughed, half-apologetic, half-coquettish; but she found
herself hurried out into the hall.
“Who’s that fellow?” asked William sharply. She was still laughing,
half hysterical.
“Caraffi’s manager, Aristide Corwin—I’ve known him for ages.”
William grunted.
“Looks like a Monte Carlo gambler,” he said, and signaled for a taxi.
 X
Virginia bade Lucas stop the horses. The old wagonette was on its
way out to Denbigh Crossing, and Daniel Carter had just come in
sight. Virginia thought she had never seen him look so pale.
“He looks ill, and his limp is bad, too, poor fellow!” she breathed to
herself; but she smiled, leaning over the back of the seat to shake
hands.
“Where have you kept yourself, Dan?” she asked kindly, with the
sweetness in her tone that Daniel had come to recognize as pity.
“Grandfather has been asking for you.”
“I’m afraid he wants the book he lent me,” said Daniel, looking up at
her and aware of the softness of her glance. She looked lovely, that
same old shade hat looped down and the knot of pink under her
chin; but the muslin dress was dotted white Swiss this time, with a
little opening at the neck that showed a lovely throat. “I’ll bring it
back this week.”
“Fie! As if he wanted the old book! We’ve missed you, Dan.”
He flushed boyishly and let his eyes dwell upon her. And, for the first
time in her life, Virginia blushed consciously under Daniel’s look.
“Have you really?” he asked eagerly.
“Really and truly!” She nodded at him, smiling. “I should have
written you a note about it—invited you to dinner, in fact, if it had
not been for our—our concert—” She blushed this time,
remembering suddenly that there must have been an earthquake in
the Carter house. “I’ve just finished settling up the accounts with
Mrs. Payson,” she added hurriedly. “I’m glad it’s over!”
There was a ghost of laughter in Daniel’s eyes, but he kept a sober
face.
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