Maggie MacKeever by The Misses Millikin

protruded in a grotesque manner through the fog. But this fact did not account for Angelica’s befuddlement, nor should it: not a garden in all of London did not suffer a similar plight. Among the barren vegetation wandered a menagerie the likes of which Angelica had never viewed, and had never hoped to view. Some she recognized—a zebra, two panthers, some sheep and a ram. All appeared to coexist most amicably.
    “Gracious!” she said faintly, then gasped as a huge and shaggy shape emerged from the fog. Feeling rather foolish, and very much relieved, Angelica discovered that the ominous figure was not her prospective employer but a buffalo.
    “Don’t let them frighten you, girl!” came a pleasantly gruff voice, from the vicinity of a marble bench. “They’re only curious. For that matter, so am I! Come closer and let us have a look at you.”
    Gingerly, Angelica threaded her way through the wildlife which, she was relieved to discover, were not so friendly as to force unwelcome attentions on her. On the far end of the marble bench was perched an elderly gentleman, muffled to his bewhiskered chin in outdoor attire. From beneath his disreputable hat, which was pulled well down over his ears, protruded sparse snow-white hair. On his nose sat a pair of spectacles. “Sir Randall?” Angelica inquired, timidly.
    “Can’t see a curst thing in this murk!” replied the gentleman, irritably. “Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not a wretched nuisance to grow old. Although I daresay the beasts are glad enough of my infirmities! I meant to dissect the brutes, but neither my hands nor my eyes are what they used to be. Don’t stand there gawking, girl; that much I can see! Sit down! I have quite enough people hovering over me.”
    Abruptly Angelica sat, unsure whether to be horrified or amused. Stunned, she watched a very queer-looking animal approach Sir Randall, drop awkwardly to its knees, and place its head in the doctor’s lap. “This is a shawl goat from the East Indies,” said he. “Those sheep you see are from Turkey. I had wanted a whale but, alas! It was not to be.”
    With all her might, Angelica strove to restrain an inclination to laugh out loud. She diffidently suggested that, were Sir Randall to wipe the moisture from his spectacles, he might find his vision a trifle more clear.
    Sir Randall did so, in the process revealing a round and cherubic countenance. He replaced the glasses and regarded Angelica. “You don’t want for sense.” The admission was made grudgingly. “Nor did you go all mawkish at the notion of dissection, which is a point in your favor. Why not, eh?” Sir Randall scratched the goat’s neck. The goat looked blissful and made noises strongly suggestive of a wish to purr. “Are you one of those newfangled females who think it is modern to be thick-skinned?”
    Considering the temperature of the foggy garden, Angelica would not have been regretful were that indeed the case. “My father was a doctor, sir,” she replied. “He made a lifelong study of pathological anatomy, believing that the examination of diseased tissues and organs might lead to a clearer conception of the symptoms and appearances of disease in living patients. I was used to help him prepare his anatomical specimens.”
    “Humph!” ejaculated Sir Randall. “A strange pastime for a female.”
    “So my mother believed, sir.” Surreptitiously, Angelica chafed her frozen hands. “It all came about when Papa chose to operate on my cat. I insisted on being present—Papa, when engaged in experimentation, was not entirely trustworthy. He was so pleased when I did not, er, cast up my accounts that he immediately determined to make me his assistant.”
    “And the cat?” inquired Sir Randall.
    “The cat lived for many years, sir.” Angelica gently strove to guide the conversation into more practical channels. How much had Valerian told Sir Randall of the circumstances surrounding her application for this post?