The Theoretical Foot by M. F. K. Fisher

!”
    â€œYes,” Honor allowed. “She’s swell. Maybe not quite Shakespeare but . . .?”
    â€œOh, some of those early sonnets, and anyway, no one’s Shakespeare except Shakespeare. And what other woman has ever written a play in verse that has run for weeks and months all over the world?”
    â€œOkay, sure,” Honor laughed. “I’m just as enthusiastic as you are and wait until you get to know her. But . . .?” She looked hard at Sue, who stood leaning heavily against the table.
    Sue was frowning under her thick dark brows, remembering those sonnets, those fine ringing lines.
    â€œBut, Sue,” Honor continued. “You look like you have a fever. How do you feel? Did you find those hankies?”
    Sue nodded. She was still overwhelmed with bewildered awe that she was in the same house as was Anne Garton Temple. She shook her head, trying then to answer Honor’s question.
    â€œNo, really, I feel quite all right, thanks,” Sue said, but then she sniffed.
    â€œYes?” Honor asked, still examining her quizzically.
    â€œYes, really. It’s just that I forgot to eat any breakfast and now I’m in sort of a blur, with it’s all being so queer and exciting and . . .”
    â€œOh, HELL-OH-oh!”
    The girls looked up. On the balcony that stretched across half the length of the long house, a woman leaned over who was now waving at them. She had a nice smile and Sue smiled back at the woman, who had thick light-brown hair that was piled messily into a tousle at the back of her head. This was a big woman, from what Sue could see, with heavy breasts and broad shoulders.
    This can’t be the one who thinks I’m bad, Sue thought. She seems so friendly, so kind.
    â€œOh, hello, Lucy,” Honor called up to her, with more easy geniality than Sue expected of her. “Lucy, this is our friend Susan Harper. Sue, Mrs. Pendleton.”
    â€œYou poor child! Don’t stand there breaking your neck looking up at me, but then I would stand in the most uncomfortable place for everyone!”
    Lucy Pendleton spoke so warmly, her mouth was wide, her eyes bright blue, and she seemed to smile with her entire face. “Isn’t it time for lunch?” she asked. “I’ve had such an absorbing morning but I’ll be right down and try to do something useful,” she said, then disappeared.
    Sue looked at Honor, lifting her dark brows inquiringly. Honor was busy pushing deck chairs and arranging them around the table.
    â€œShe’s a painter,” Honor explained. “Watercolors. Friend of Nan’s. Pick a comfortable chair, Sue, and sit right down. Everything will be out in a moment. You really look like you could do with a little nourishment.”
    Sue, after a moment of internal protest, did then sink gratefully into a chair. It felt so good to be sitting down. This was the first time she could remember being seated since, what? Was it two weeks ago on the train they’d taken to Munich? The thought of eating, though, made her feel a little queasy. She let her head lie back against the striped canvas back of the chair, pulling her feet up under her to sit on them, as she had as a child.
    Honor now strode across to the gratings in front of the living room windows and called down, “Hey!”
    â€œYes, Mr. Kelly,” she said. “I called. And you can tell that to Mr. Timothy Garton, also that rat Daniel Tennant, and tell them Sara says lunch is almost over and she thinks this is a very strange way for a newly arrived guest to behave to say nothing of . . .”
    â€œYes, Miss Tennant!” someone called.
    Then there was a bang, then the subdued scuffling of feet through the cellar and Honor laughed. “Having a quicky, I suppose,” she said aloud to no one in particular, then she walked over and sat down, then closed her eyes as if she were too bored to leave them open a moment longer.
    Why does everyone