DOI article:
Harland, Henry: The invisible prince
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.26393#0077
By Henry Harland 73
the fashion of the period, stopped before a hairdresser’s shop in
Knightsbridge somewhere, and, raising his hat, bowed to the
three waxen ladies who simpered from the window.
“Oh ! It’s Mr. Field ! ” a voice behind him cried. “ What
are these cryptic rites that you’re performing ? What on earth
are you bowing into a hairdresser’s window for ? a smooth,
melodious voice, tinged by an inflection that was half ironical,
half bewildered.
“ I was saluting the type of English beauty,” he answered,
turning. “ Fortunately, there are divergencies from it,” he
added, as he met the puzzled smile of his interlocutrice ; a puzzled
smile indeed, but, like the voice, by no means without its touch
of irony.
She gave a little laugh ; and then, examining the models
critically, “Oh?” she questioned. “Would you call that the
type ? You place the type high. Their features are quite fault-
less, and who ever saw such complexions ? ”
“ It’s the type, all the same,” said he. “Just as the imitation
marionette is the type of English breeding.”
“ The imitation marionette ? I’m afraid I don’t follow,” she
confessed.
“ The imitation marionettes. You’ve seen them at little
theatres in Italy. They’re actors who imitate puppets. Men and
women who try to behave as if they weren’t human, as if they
were made of starch and whalebone instead of flesh and blood.”
“Ah, yes,” she assented, with another little laugh. “That
would be rather typical of our insular methods. But do you
know what an engaging, what a reviving spectacle you presented,
as you stood there flourishing your hat ? What do you imagine
people thought ? And what would have happened to you if I
had just chanced to be a policeman, instead of a friend ? ”
“ Would
the fashion of the period, stopped before a hairdresser’s shop in
Knightsbridge somewhere, and, raising his hat, bowed to the
three waxen ladies who simpered from the window.
“Oh ! It’s Mr. Field ! ” a voice behind him cried. “ What
are these cryptic rites that you’re performing ? What on earth
are you bowing into a hairdresser’s window for ? a smooth,
melodious voice, tinged by an inflection that was half ironical,
half bewildered.
“ I was saluting the type of English beauty,” he answered,
turning. “ Fortunately, there are divergencies from it,” he
added, as he met the puzzled smile of his interlocutrice ; a puzzled
smile indeed, but, like the voice, by no means without its touch
of irony.
She gave a little laugh ; and then, examining the models
critically, “Oh?” she questioned. “Would you call that the
type ? You place the type high. Their features are quite fault-
less, and who ever saw such complexions ? ”
“ It’s the type, all the same,” said he. “Just as the imitation
marionette is the type of English breeding.”
“ The imitation marionette ? I’m afraid I don’t follow,” she
confessed.
“ The imitation marionettes. You’ve seen them at little
theatres in Italy. They’re actors who imitate puppets. Men and
women who try to behave as if they weren’t human, as if they
were made of starch and whalebone instead of flesh and blood.”
“Ah, yes,” she assented, with another little laugh. “That
would be rather typical of our insular methods. But do you
know what an engaging, what a reviving spectacle you presented,
as you stood there flourishing your hat ? What do you imagine
people thought ? And what would have happened to you if I
had just chanced to be a policeman, instead of a friend ? ”
“ Would