Jumping Jenny Read Online Free PDF Page B

wonderful part; but of course it was character, not just being able to wear the dresses, that I got it on.”
    “I didn’t know you’d been on the stage.”
    “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Stratton sighed dramatically. “I was on the stage for a time.”
    “Before you were married, of course?”
    “No, since. But I’d studied for it before. I didn’t find,” said Mrs. Stratton earnestly, “that marriage gave me the fulfilment I expected from it.”
    “And the stage did?”
    “For a time. But even that didn’t satisfy me altogether. But I managed to find fulfilment in the end. Can you imagine what it was that brought it? I expect you can, Mr. Sheringham.”
    “I can’t think.”
    “Oh, and I did think you’d understand. The women in your books are always so very true. Why, having a baby. It’s the only possible way really to fulfil oneself, Mr. Sheringham,” said Mrs. Stratton with much intensity.
    “Then I look like remaining unfulfilled,” said Roger ribaldly.
    Mrs. Stratton smiled tolerantly. “For a woman, I meant. A man can fulfil himself in so many ways, of course; can’t he?”
    “Oh, yes,” Roger agreed. He was wondering what people like Mrs. Stratton really meant by that can’t word, if indeed they meant anything at all. In any case, he had felt as yet no urge to be fulfilled in any of the many ways.
    “Your writing, for instance,” Mrs. Stratton added, rather helpfully.
    “Yes, yes, of course. That fulfils me all right. Shall I put your glass down?”
    “That would be rather wasting an opportunity, wouldn’t it?” said Mrs. Stratton, with ponderous kittenishness.
    As Roger poured out the drink he pondered on the determination with which Mrs. Stratton had dragged into the conversation, within three minutes, what were evidently the two most important achievements of her life: that she had been on the stage, and that she had had a baby. It was plain, too, that in Ena Stratton’s opinion these two events reflected the greatest possible credit on Ena Stratton.
    What Roger himself thought reflected credit on Ena Stratton was that in spite of the amount of whisky she had apparently absorbed during the evening, she showed no sign at all of approaching the only thing really worth while in life.
    “Thank you,” she said, as he gave her the replenished glass. “Let’s go up on the roof, shall we? I feel stifled here, in this crowd. I want to look at the stars. Would you mind frightfully?”
    “I should love to look at the stars,” said Roger.
    Carrying their glasses, they went up the little staircase that led to the big flat roof. In the middle of it the three straw figures still dangled from their heavy gallows. Mrs. Stratton gave them a tolerant smile.
    “Ronald is really rather childish sometimes, isn’t he, Mr. Sheringham?”
    “It’s a great thing to be able to be childish sometimes,” Roger maintained.
    “Oh, yes, I know. I can be absurdly childish when the fit takes me, of course.”
    The edge of the roof was bounded by a stout railing. The two leaned their elbows on it and gazed down into the blackness that shrouded the back kitchens below. Mrs. Stratton had apparently forgotten that she wanted to gaze upwards, at the stars.
    The April night was mild and fine.
    “Oh dear,” sighed Mrs. Stratton, “I’m an awful fool, I expect.”
    Roger deliberated between a polite “Oh, no,” a blunt “Why?” or a not very tactful but encouraging “Yes?”
    “I feel so terribly introspective to-night,” pursued his companion, before he could decide on any of these choices.
    “Do you?” he said feebly.
    “Yes. Do you often feel introspective, Mr. Sheringham?”
    “Not very often. At least, I try not to encourage it.”
    “It’s terrible,” said Mrs. Stratum, with gloomy relish.
    “It must be.”
    There was a pause, for contemplation ofthe terribleness of Mrs. Stratton’s introspection.
    “One can’t help asking oneself, is there really any use in life?”
    “A dreadful question,”