Free Hanno’s Doll by Evelyn Piper

seen her effect in Philip Scott’s upturned face as she came slowly down, making, as he had shown her how to, the most of the tilting of the wide panniered skirt, her bracelets glistening. She had set her hands, as he had taught her to, one on each side of the skirt. It had seemed that Philip would never get his mouth closed, that Philip would gape up at her, forever, stand forever with his glass in his hand.
    He had had to push the ottoman forward for Puppchen, since any chair would crush the skirt, and she had swayed across the room to it and then waited there, unmoving. (“Never fidget, Puppchen.”) When he had brought her the champagne in the Waterford glass, she had gravely bowed her head in thanks, like a little queen.
    He had known then that Philip Scott hadn’t meant cavalier servant to Puppchen, not just someone to squire her, to take her around if he was busy. Oh, no, Philip had been an insurance policy, Philip’s youth had given Puppchen back the confidence she had lost when, in his dressing room that day, she had watched his lifeblood draining in the hemorrhage and had gone home to kill herself. It was only after the reinforcement, the insurance policy in the person of Philip, had appeared that she had been able to bear her husband out of her sight at all without trembling for fear the Grim Reaper would appear and snatch him and leave her alone again, as when her mother had left her, her father had deserted her, her lover had run away. Not knowing why he had had to take Philip Scott away from her, Puppchen had not approved.
    He had understood, after a while, why Puppchen felt as she did, but he had not been able to do anything about it. It was when Miss Mildred and Philip came to the house the night before Thanksgiving to say good-by that he had seen.
    â€œI hope you will be very happy,” Puppchen had said to Miss Mildred. “I congratulate you, Philip.”
    Deportment, that is, but with her voice thinned out. She had looked at him, at her husband, with hurt eyes, then lowered her lids and hid the hurt. Those white lids slowly descending … He had seen Pavlova dance. Puppchen’s eyelids could execute a perfect little ballet movement.
    He had touched Puppchen’s shoulder. “Philip will be back soon,” he had said, and conveyed his understanding and a promise in the pressure on her shoulder. Because she spoke so little, strangers did not know how quick she was. Immediately he felt the speaking flick of her shoulders, the flesh of her shoulders, softening, at ease, secure again in his understanding of her needs.
    â€œHave you told anybody about the elopement?” he had asked Miss Mildred.
    She had told Grace Metal, but Miss Metal had not liked the marriage, either, apparently smelled something not quite right with her sniffing, old maid’s nose. Who better than an old maid to know whether a man loved a girl or not? But Miss Metal (suspecting the unborn child?) had apparently accepted the marriage as a necessary evil. Miss Metal too had formally wished Miss Mildred happiness.
    Then he and Puppchen, his arm around Puppchen, had gone that evening to see Philip and Miss Mildred off. Puppchen had shivered in the bright November cold.
    â€œI think we’ll have a white Thanksgiving,” Philip had said, looking up at the sky.
    â€œWhite for weddings,” he had thought, like a sentimental Viennese, but thought also, white page, fresh white page, thank heaven, a white beginning. Miss Mildred would not start a hunt for the boy; he could start fresh.
    Then he had thought, Why send Miss Mildred back with another whole night for Miss Metal to pry in? Why take a chance that tonight Miss Metal wouldn’t finally hear about the boy last summer in dramatic school, and how he had appeared at Bradley and said he would come back to the office and then had disappeared? Wasn’t it a real possibility that Miss Mildred, feeling safe from disgrace, might tell Miss