He was eager for news of the years between then and now. It was so wonderful that the surly young beginner in vaudeville should have evolved into this orchid of the salons. He was interested in the working of such social machinery. He urged: "Tell me all about yourself." "No, thanks." "But what happened to you after I saw you? You don't remember me, of course." "I remember the monkey." They both laughed at the unconscious brutality of this. He turned solemn and asked: "You mean that so many men came back to call on you?" "No, not so many--too many, but not many. But--well, the monkey was more unusual, I suppose. He traveled with us several weeks. He was very jealous. He had a fight with a big trained dog that I petted once. They nearly killed each other before they could be separated. And such noises as they made! I can hear them yet. The manager of the monkey wanted to marry me. I was unhappy with my team, but I hated that man--he was such a cruel beast with the monkey that supported him. He'd have beaten me, too, I suppose, and made me support him." Davidge sighed with relief as if her escape had been just a moment before instead of years ago. "Lord! I'm glad you didn't marry him! But tell me what did happen after I saw you." The road led them into a sizable town, street-car tracks, bad pavements, stupid shops, workmen's little homes in rows like chicken-houses, then better streets, better homes, business blocks well paved, a hotel, a post-office, a Carnegie library, a gawky Civil War statue, then poorer shops, rickety pavements, shanties, and the country again. Davidge noted that she had not answered his question. He repeated it: "What happened after you and the monkey-trainer parted?" "Oh, years later I was in Berlin with a team called the Musical Mokes, and Sir Joseph and Lady Webling saw me and thought I looked like their daughter, and they adopted me--that's all." She had grown a bit weary of her autobiography. Abbie had made her tell it over and over, but had tried in vain to find out what went on between her stage-beginnings and her last appearance in Berlin. Davidge was fascinated by her careless summary of such great events; for to one in love, all biography of the beloved becomes important history. But having seen her as a member of Sir Joseph's household, he was more interested in the interregnum. "But between your reaching Berlin and the time I saw you what happened?" "That's my business." She saw him wince at the abrupt discourtesy of this. She apologized: "I don't mean to be rude, but--well, it wouldn't interest you." "Oh yes, it would. Don't tell me if you don't want to, but--" "But--" "Oh, nothing!" "You mean you'll think that if I don't tell you it's because I'm ashamed to." "Oh no, not at all." "Oh yes, at all. Well, what if I were?" "I can't imagine your having done anything to be ashamed of." "O Lord! Am I as stupid as that comes to?"