The Signature of All Things

and Mr. George Hawkes discussing today?” Retta asked one November day, when she was bored of her picture magazines.
    “Hornworts,” Alma responded.
    “Oh, they sound horrid. Are they animals, Alma?”
    “No, they are not animals, darling,” she replied. “They are plants.”
    “Can one eat them?”
    “Not unless one is a deer,” Alma said, laughing. “And a hungry deer at that.”
    “How lovely to be a deer,” Retta mused. “Unless one were a deer in the rain, which would be unfortunate and uncomfortable. Tell me about these hornworts, Mr. George Hawkes . But tell it in such a way that an empty-headed little person such as myself might be made to understand.”
    This was unfair, for George Hawkes only had one manner of speaking, which was academic and erudite, and not at all tailored for empty-headed little persons.
    “Well, Miss Snow,” he began awkwardly. “They are among our least sophisticated plants—”
    “But that is an unkind thing to say, sir!”
    “—and they are autotrophic.”
    “How proud their parents must be of them!”
    “Well . . . er,” George stuttered. By now, he was out of words.
    Here, Alma stepped in, out of mercy for George. “Autotrophic, Retta, means that they can make their own food.”
    “So I could never be a hornwort, I suppose,” Retta said, with a sad sigh.
    “Not likely!” Alma said. “But you might like hornworts, if you came to know them better. They are quite pretty under the microscope.”
    Retta waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, I never know where to look , in the microscope!”
    “Where to look?” Alma laughed in disbelief. “Retta—you look through the eyepiece!”
    “But the eyepiece is so confining , and the view of tiny things is so alarming. It makes one feel seasick. Do you ever feel seasick , Mr. George Hawkes, when you look through the microscope?”
    Pained by this question, George stared at the floor.
    “Hush now, Retta,” Alma said. “Mr. Hawkes and I need to concentrate.”
    “If you continue to hush me, Alma, I shall have to go find Prudence and bother her while she paints flowers on teacups and tries to convince me to be a more noble person.”
    “Go, then!” Alma said with good cheer.
    “Honestly, you two,” said Retta, “I simply do not understand why you must always work so much. But if it keeps you out of the arcades and the gin palaces, I suppose it does you no permanent harm . . .”
    “Go!” Alma said, giving Retta a fond little push. Off Retta trotted on her hiddy-giddy way, leaving Alma smiling, and George Hawkes entirely baffled.
    “I must confess I do not understand a word she speaks,” George said, after Retta had vanished.
    “Take comfort, Mr. Hawkes. She does not understand you, either.”
    “But why does she always hover about you, I wonder?” George mused. “Is she trying to improve herself by your company?”
    Alma’s face warmed in pleasure at this compliment—happy that George might believe her company to be an improving force—but she said merely, “We can never be entirely certain of Miss Snow’s motives, Mr. Hawkes. Who knows? Perhaps she is trying to improve me .”
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    B y Christmas, Retta Snow had managed to become such good friends with Alma and Prudence that she would invite the Whittaker girls over to her family’s estate for luncheons—thus taking Alma away from her botanical research, and taking Prudence away from whatever it was that Prudence did with her time.
    Luncheons at Retta’s home were ridiculous affairs, as befitted Retta’s ridiculous nature. There would be a gallimaufry of ices and trifles and toasts, supervised (if one could call it supervision) by Retta’s adorable yet incompetent English maid. Never once was a conversation of value or substance to be heard in this house, but Retta was always prepared for anything foolish, fun, or sportive. She even managed to get Alma and Prudence to play nonsense parlor games with her—games designed for much younger children, such as Post Office, Hunt the Keyhole, or, best of all, Dumb Orator. It was all terribly silly, but also terribly fun. The fact was, Alma and Prudence had never before played —not with each other, not alone, not with any other children. Till now, Alma had never particularly understood what play even was.
    But play was the only thing Retta Snow ever did. Her favorite pastime was to read aloud the accident reports in the local newspapers for theentertainment of Alma and Prudence. It was