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Once we were all seated, Mr. Barnum rang a silver bell; another maid appeared, and he asked for lemonade and cookies to be served. I felt Mama approved of this, as she smiled in genuine pleasure and relaxed a fraction, just enough so that I did not fear she might break into brittle little pieces if she moved too quickly.

“Did you have a pleasant journey?” Mr. Barnum asked my father.

“Well, I guess. Nothing bad happened, anyway. But I’m not looking forward to the return home.” Papa picked up the dropped cigar and held it, once again, at arm’s length. I knew he did not approve of cigars, only pipes.

“This was my parents’ first train journey,” I explained to Mr. Barnum, who nodded in sympathy.

“Oh, I remember my first trip! Like to have scared the daylights out of me, all the noise and steam and speed. Nothing beats the old horse and buggy, does it, Mr. Bump?”

“No, sirree, not by a long shot!” My father smiled for the first time since we left Middleborough; relaxing, he dropped the cigar in a cut-glass ashtray and left it there.

“But now, why—can’t get along without it! I couldn’t keep up with my business if I didn’t take the train into New York every day!”

“Every day? You take the train every day?” Papa looked at him in horror.

“Can’t deny it! Every weekday morning, just about, ol’ William—that’s the coachman—takes me to the station, and I take the train into New York, then I walk to my museum. I take the train home at night, and William drives me back here. Very efficient—and I don’t have to live in the city anymore. I can’t imagine living anyplace but Bridgeport now—my wife’s health, you know, requires rest and sea air.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mama murmured automatically, but Mr. Barnum merely waved his hand.

“ ’Tis nothing new to me; Charity has long been prone to sickness. I tire her out, that’s the thing; it takes a lot out of a woman to keep up with me!” And Mr. Barnum laughed, as if it were truly nothing, but behind his eyes that little light wavered a bit.

The maid brought in a tray with tall frosty glasses of lemonade and plates of delicate sugar cookies; she served them all around, then left the tray and silently retired.

“Now, let’s get to the point of this. I understand you don’t think very highly of me.” Mr. Barnum spoke to my father, although I felt as if he was really addressing my mother. He turned to Papa, but his eyes looked at her.

“Oh, my, well, I never intended to be rude!” Mama was very flustered—but she was the one who answered, as Papa chose that moment to conveniently stuff a cookie into his mouth.

“Not rude, just prudent,” Mr. Barnum replied cheerfully, with an understanding nod. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest—an attitude I would soon grow to know very well. It was an attitude of waiting—waiting for someone to give him the answer that he sought. Rarely was he left waiting for long.

“Yes, prudent, of course!” Mama nodded vigorously. “You see, Vinnie—Lavinia—is our eldest daughter left at home, and naturally we worry about her. We are quite an old family, you know—the Warrens from Massachusetts; five of my ancestors came over on the Mayflower.” Mama smiled in that prim way she had whenever she spoke of her ancestry.

“You don’t say?” Mr. Barnum’s eyebrows raised and his eyes narrowed intently. He appeared to be filing this information away, for what purpose my mother of course could not suspect—but I did, and I smiled to myself, nibbling daintily at a cookie.

“So naturally we have concerns about her future,” Mama continued. “We want only what is proper and dignified for Lavinia and for our family.”

“Naturally.” Mr. Barnum sat for a second, apparently deep in thought. The room was silent, save for the sound of my father nervously clearing his throat. “Yet you had no qualms about letting her travel about the Mississippi on a rowboat?”

Mama gasped, and Papa, who had been uneasily silent until now, said, “See here!”

Mr. Barnum merely smiled, turning to me for the first time in this conversation. And then he sat back, his arms still folded