Tipping the Velvet: A Novel by Sarah Waters

From the Publisher

A classic picaresque, Tipping the Velvet chronicles the adventures of Nancy King, who begins life as an oyster girl in the provincial seaside town of Whitstable and whose fortunes are forever changed when she falls in love with a cross-dressing music hall singer named Miss Kitty Butler. When Kitty is called up to London for an engagement on "Grease Paint Avenue," Nan follows as her dresser and secret lover. Before long, Nan dons trousers herself, and the two male impersonators become a celebrated pair of the stage. But when Kitty betrays her, a solitary, heartbroken Nan reinvents herself as a butch roue - a sort of Moll Flanders in drag - navigating her way through London's seamy and flourishing gay demimonde as she pursues her thrilling and varied sexual education.

BUST Magazine

Tipping the Velvet is a luscious turn-of-the-century English tale of lesgians, lust, kept girls, Socialists, oyster-shuckers and of course...love. It's a feast for the imagination, and just when we think wek now where the story is going, Sarah Waters takes us in a more seductive and tantalizing direction.

Barcelona Review

The novel is a bit long and drags at first - my biggest complaint - but it picks up and develops into a fun, racy romp of a read, giving a backstreet, late-19th century portrait of London - with nice period details - such as you'll never enounter in Dickens.

OUT Magazine - Bethany Schneider

...this big, bawdy English novel is no chronicle of upper-class perversities. Full of historical detail and lesbo adventure, it's a story of working-class guts and sexual bravado that should keep you satisfied for a week—or at least one good all-night reading stint...this is a rare treat.

Beth Amos

The life of 18-year-old oyster girl Nancy Astley is boringly ordinary. As one of several children born to fishmonger parents who manage to eke out a meager but pleasant enough living in the seaside village of Whitstable, Nancy's future looks to be staid and predictable. But then she travels to a music hall in a nearby town and catches the act of a young cross-dressing performer by the name of Kitty Butler.

Intrigued by this attractive young woman who dresses, dances, and sings "as a feller," Nancy returns to the music hall several more times, finally catching Miss Butler's attention. A friendship quickly develops and before long, Nancy has become Kitty's dresser, helping her to change costumes between acts. Though Nancy is keenly aware of her desire to make her relationship with Kitty more than mere friendship, she bides her time, unsure of Kitty's own preference.

When a talent agent discovers Kitty and offers her a debut in the London theater district, Nancy's role as Kitty's dresser becomes official and, at Kitty's invitation, Nancy tags along. The two girls are mesmerized by the bright lights and city life, and when Nancy eventually joins the act as a second male impersonator with the stage name Nan King, both their professional and their sexual lives soar to new heights.

But Kitty isn't comfortable with her life as a Tom, and in an effort to hide her true sexuality, she decides to closet herself by agreeing to marry her male agent and abruptly ending her relationship with Nan. Brokenhearted and devastated, Nan blunders off in a depressive funk, taking nothing but a little money and her stage costumes with her. With no means of generating any income, Nan dons her male persona and hits the streets to make a living as a "renter," providing oral sex to men who take her for a boy prostitute.

For a while Nan accepts the daily degradations, but eventually it starts to wear on her. Just as she feels she has reached the lowest point in her life, salvation arrives in the form of one Diana Lethaby, a rich widow with a voracious and somewhat twisted sexual appetite. When Diana invites Nan to become her live-in girl-toy, Nan jumps at the chance. For the next year or so, Nan willingly gives up any semblance of independence in exchange for a life of decadent sex and opulent luxury, the likes of which she has never known.

It doesn't last, however, and in fact disappears in the blink of an eye when Diana tosses Nan out into the street over a sexual transgression. Destitute and desperate, Nan manages to seek out the home of social worker Florence Banner, a woman Nan met briefly just before being taken in by Diana. With Florence, Nan struggles to find her true self, to establish some semblance of a normal life, and to put her past behind her.

Unexpectedly, it is with the plain-faced, hard-working Florence that Nan has the chance to find real love, but her feelings and commitment will be sorely tested by the sudden reappearance of several faces from her own past and a lingering ghost from Florence's past that threatens to keep them apart.

Waters depicts her characters and settings with colorful flair and vivid imagery. From the simple, hardworking values of an English fishing village to the bawdy, flamboyant lifestyles of the performers in London's theaters, Tipping the Velvet paints a sensuously lavish picture of the smells, sights, denizens, and desires of late Victorian England and its growing lesbian culture.

-- Beth Amos

The Independent on Sunday

An unstoppable read, a sexy and picaresque romp through the lesbian and queer demi-monde of the roaring Nineties. It's gorgeous.

Library Journal

When Nancy Astley falls for Kitty Butler, a cross-dressing cabaret singer, she has no idea just how far she'll go from her roots shucking oysters in a seaside resort in Kent. Waters's rowdy debut novel strikes out for a woman finding her independence in turn-of-the-century England, while painting a colorful portrait of the time. (LJ 3/15/99) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.

The New York Times Book Review - Miranda Seymour

...[B]uoyant and accomplished....an erotic and absorbing story set in late-Victorian England....If lesbian fiction is to reach a wider readership — as much...of it deserves to do — Waters is just the person to carry the banner.

Kirkus Reviews

Echoes of Tom Jones, Great Expectations, and anonymous confessional pornography resound throughout this richly entertaining first novel from England: the picaresque tale of its lesbian heroine's progress through several levels of both polite and refreshingly impolite Victorian society.

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Have you ever tasted a Whitstable oyster? If you have, you will remember it. Some quirk of the Kentish coastline makes Whitstable natives — as they are properly called — the largest and the juiciest, the savouriest yet the subtlest, oysters in the whole of England. Whitstable oysters are, quite rightly, famous. The French, who are known for their sensitive palates, regularly cross the Channel for them; they are shipped, in barrels of ice, to the dining-tables of Hamburg and Berlin. Why, the King himself, I heard, makes special trips to Whitstable with Mrs Keppel, to eat oyster suppers in a private hotel; and as for the old Queen — she dined on a native a day (or so they say) till the day she died.

    Did you ever go to Whitstable, and see the oyster-parlours there? My father kept one; I was born in it — do you recall a narrow, weather-boarded house, painted a flaking blue, half-way between the High Street and the harbour? Do you remember the bulging sign that hung above the door, that said that Astley's Oysters, the Best in Kent were to be had within? Did you, perhaps, push at that door, and step into the dim, low-ceilinged, fragrant room beyond it? Can you recall the tables with their chequered cloths — the bill of fare chalked on a board — the spirit-lamps, the sweating slabs of butter?

    Were you served by a girl with a rosy cheek, and a saucy manner, and curls? That was my sister, Alice. Or was it a man, rather tall and stooping, with a snowy apron falling from the knot in his neck-tie to the bow in his boots? That was my father. Did you see, as the kitchen door swung to and fro, a lady stand frowning into the clouds of steam that rose from a pan of bubbling oyster soup, or a sizzling gridiron? That was my mother.

    And was there at her side a slender, white-faced, unremarkable-looking girl, with the sleeves of her dress rolled up to her elbows, and a lock of lank and colourless hair forever falling into her eye, and her lips continually moving to the words of some street-singer's or music-hall song?

    That was me.

    Like Molly Malone in the old ballad, I was a fishmonger, because my parents were. They kept the restaurant, and the rooms above it: I was raised an oyster-girl, and steeped in all the flavours of the trade. My first few childish steps I took around vats of sleeping natives and barrels of ice; before I was ever given a piece of chalk and a slate, I was handed an oyster-knife and instructed in its use; while I was still lisping out my alphabet at the schoolmaster's knee, I could name you the contents of an oyster-cook's kitchen — could sample fish with a blindfold on, and tell you their variety. Whitstable was all the world to me, Astley's Parlour my own particular country, oyster-juice my medium. Although I didn't long believe the story told to me by Mother — that they had found me as a baby in an oyster-shell, and a greedy customer had almost eaten me for lunch — for eighteen years I never doubted my own oysterish sympathies, never looked far beyond my father's kitchen for occupation, or for love.

    It was a curious kind of life, mine, even by Whitstable standards; but it was not a disagreeable or even a terribly hard one. Our working day began at seven, and ended twelve hours later; and through all those hours my duties were the same. While Mother cooked, and Alice and my father served, I sat upon a high stool at the side of a vat of natives, and scrubbed, and rinsed, and plied the oyster-knife. Some people like their oysters raw; and for them your job is easiest, for you have merely to pick out a dozen natives from the barrel, swill the brine from them, and place them, with a piece of parsley or cress, upon a plate. But for those who took their oysters stewed, or fried — or baked, or scalloped, or put in a pie — my labours were more delicate. Then I must open each oyster, and beard it, and transfer it to Mother's cooking-pot with all of its savoury flesh intact, and none of its liquor spilled or tainted. Since a supper-plate will hold a dozen fish; since oyster-teas are cheap; and since our Parlour was a busy one, with room for fifty customers at once — well, you may calculate for yourself the vast numbers of oysters which passed, each day, beneath my prising knife; and you might imagine, too, the redness and the soreness and the sheer salty soddenness of my fingers at the close of every afternoon. Even now, two decades and more since I put aside my oyster-knife and quit my father's kitchen for ever, I feel a ghostly, sympathetic twinge in my wrist and finger-joints at the sight of a fishmonger's barrel, or the sound of an oyster-man's cry; and still, sometimes, I believe I can catch the scent of liquor and brine beneath my thumb-nail, and in the creases of my palm.

    I have said that there was nothing in my life, when I was young, but oysters; but that is not quite true. I had friends and cousins, as any girl must have who grows up in a small town in a large, old family. I had my sister Alice — my dearest friend of all — with whom I shared a bedroom and a bed, and who heard all my secrets, and told me all of hers. I even had a kind of beau: a boy named Freddy, who worked a dredging smack beside my brother Davy and my Uncle Joe on Whitstable Bay.

    And last of all I had a fondness — you might say, a kind of passion — for the music hall; and more particularly for music-hall songs and the singing of them. If you have visited Whitstable you will know that this was a rather inconvenient passion, for the town has neither music hall nor theatre — only a solitary lamp-post before the Duke of Cumberland Hotel, where minstrel troupes occasionally sing, and the Punch-and-Judy man, in August, sets his booth. But Whitstable is only fifteen minutes away by train from Canterbury; and here there was a music hall — the Canterbury Palace of Varieties — where the shows were three hours long, and the tickets cost sixpence, and the acts were the best to be seen, they said, in all of Kent.

    The Palace was a small and, I suspect, a rather shabby theatre; but when I see it in my memories I see it still with my oyster-girl's eyes — I see the mirror-glass which lined the walls, the crimson plush upon the seats, the plaster cupids, painted gold, which swooped above the curtain. Like our oyster-house, it had its own particular scent — the scent, I know now, of music halls everywhere — the scent of wood and grease-paint and spilling beer, of gas and of tobacco and of hair-oil, all combined. It was a scent which as a girl I loved uncritically; later I heard it described, by theatre managers and artistes, as the smell of laughter, the very odour of applause. Later still I came to know it as the essence not of pleasure, but of grief.

    That, however, is to get ahead of my story.

    I was more intimate than most girls with the colours and scents of the Canterbury Palace — in the period, at least, of which I am thinking, that final summer in my father's house, when I became eighteen — because Alice had a beau who worked there, a boy named Tony Reeves, who got us seats at knock-down prices or for free. Tony was the nephew of the Palace's manager, the celebrated Tricky Reeves, and therefore something of a catch for our Alice. My parents mistrusted him at first, thinking him `rapid' because he worked in a theatre, and wore cigars behind his ears, and talked glibly of contracts, London, and champagne. But no one could dislike Tony for long, he was so large-hearted and easy and good; and like every other boy who courted her, he adored my sister, and was ready to be kind to us all on her account.

    Thus it was that Alice and I were so frequently to be found on a Saturday night, tucking our skirts beneath our seats and calling out the choruses to the gayest songs, in the best and most popular shows, at the Canterbury Palace. Like the rest of the audience, we were discriminating. We had our favourite turns — artistes we watched and shouted for; songs we begged to have sung and re-sung again and again until the singer's throat was dry, and she — for more often than not it was the lady singers whom Alice and I loved best — could sing no more, but only smile and curtsey.

    And when the show was over, and we had paid our respects to Tony in his stuffy little office behind the ticket-seller's booth, we would carry the tunes away with us. We would sing them on the train to Whitstable — and sometimes others, returning home from the same show as merry as we, would sing them with us. We would whisper them into the darkness as we lay in bed, we would dream our dreams to the beat of their verses; and we would wake next morning humming them still. We'd serve a bit of music-hall glamour, then, with our fish suppers — Alice whistling as she carried platters, and making the customers smile to hear her; me, perched on my high stool beside my bowl of brine, singing to the oysters that I scrubbed and prised and bearded. Mother said I should be on the stage myself.

    When she said it, however, she laughed; and so did I. The girls I saw in the glow of the footlights, the girls whose songs I loved to learn and sing, they weren't like me. They were more like my sister: they had cherry lips, and curls that danced about their shoulders; they had bosoms that jutted, and elbows that dimpled, and ankles — when they showed them — as slim and as shapely as beer-bottles. I was tall, and rather lean. My chest was flat, my hair dull, my eyes a drab and an uncertain blue. My complexion, to be sure, was perfectly smooth and clear, and my teeth were very white; but these — in our family, at least — were counted unremarkable, for since we all passed our days in a miasma of simmering brine, we were all as bleached and blemishless as cuttlefish.

    No, girls like Alice were meant to dance upon a gilded stage, skirted in satin, hailed by cupids; and girls like me were made to sit in the gallery, dark and anonymous, and watch them.

    Or so, anyway, I thought then.

The routine I have described — the routine of prising and bearding and cooking and serving, and Saturday-night visits to the music hall — is the one that I remember most from my girlhood; but it was, of course, only a winter one. From May to August, when British natives must be left to spawn, the dredging smacks pull down their sails or put to sea in search of other quarry; and oyster-parlours all over England are obliged, in consequence, to change their menus or close their doors. The business that my father did between autumn and spring, though excellent enough, was not so good that he could afford to shut his shop throughout the summer and take a holiday; but, like many Whitstable families whose fortunes depended upon the sea and its bounty, there was a noticeable easing of our labours in the warmer months, a kind of shifting into a slower, looser, gayer key. The restaurant grew less busy. We served crab and plaice and turbot and herrings, rather than oysters, and the filleting was kinder work than the endless scrubbing and shelling of the winter months. We kept our windows raised, and the kitchen door thrown open; we were neither boiled alive by the steam of the cooking-pots, nor numbed and frozen by barrels of oyster-ice, as we were in winter, but gently cooled by the breezes, and soothed by the sound of fluttering canvas and ringing pulleys that drifted into our kitchen from Whitstable Bay.

    The summer in which I turned eighteen was a warm one, and grew warmer as the weeks advanced. For days at a time Father left the shop for Mother to run, and set up a cockle-and-whelk stall on the beach. Alice and I were free to visit the Canterbury Palace every night if we cared to; but just as no one that July wanted to eat fried fish and lobster soup in our stuffy Parlour, so the very thought of passing an hour or two in gloves and bonnet, beneath the flaring gasoliers of Tricky Reeves's airless music hall, made us gasp and droop and prickle.

    There are more similarities between a fishmonger's trade and a music-hall manager's than you might think. When Father changed his stock to suit his patrons' dulled and over-heated palates, so did Tricky. He paid half of his performers off, and brought in a host of new artistes from the music halls of Chatham, Margate and Dover; most cleverly of all, he secured a one-week contract with a real celebrity, from London: Gully Sutherland — one of the best comic singers in the business, and a guaranteed hall-filler even in the hottest of hot Kentish summers.

    Alice and I visited the Palace on the very first night of Gully Sutherland's week. By this time we had an arrangement with the lady in the ticket-booth: we gave her a nod and a smile as we arrived, then sauntered past her window and chose any seat in the hall beyond that we fancied. Usually, this was somewhere in the gallery. I could never understand the attraction of the stalls ticket; it seemed unnatural to me to seat oneself below the stage, and have to peer up at the artistes from a level somewhere near their ankles, through the faint, shimmering haze of heat that rose above the footlights. The circle gave a better view, but the gallery, though further away, to my mind gave the best of all; and there were two seats in the front row, at the very centre of the gallery, that Alice and I particular favoured. Here you knew yourself to be not just at a show but in a theatre: you caught the shape of the stage and the sweep of the seats; and you marvelled to see your neighbours' faces, and to know your own to be like theirs — all queerly lit by the glow of the footlights, and a damp at the lip, and with a grin upon it, like that of a demon at some hellish revue.

    It was certainly as hot as hell in the Canterbury Palace on Gully Sutherland's opening night — so hot that, when Alice and I leaned over the gallery rail to gaze at the audience below, we were met by a blast of tobacco- and sweat-scented air, that made us reel and cough. The theatre, as Tony's uncle had calculated, was almost full; yet it was strangely hushed. People spoke in murmurs, or not at all. When one looked from the gallery to the circle and the stalls, one saw only the flap of hats and programmes. The flapping didn't stop when the orchestra struck up its few bars of overture and the house lights dimmed; but it slowed a little, and people sat up rather straighter in their seats. The hush of fatigue became a silence of expectation.

    The Palace was an old-fashioned music hall and, like many such places in the 1880s, still employed a chairman. This, of course, was Tricky himself: he sat at a table between the stalls and the orchestra and introduced the acts, and called for order if the crowd became too rowdy, and led us in toasts to the Queen. He had a top-hat and a gavel — I have never seen a chairman without a gavel — and a mug of porter. On his table stood a candle: this was kept lit for as long as there were artistes upon the stage, but it was extinguished for the interval, and at the show's close.

    Tricky was a plain-faced man with a very handsome voice — a voice like the sound of a clarinet, at once liquid and penetrating, and lovely to listen to. On the night of Sutherland's first performance he welcomed us to his show and promised us an evening's entertainment we would never forget. Had we lungs? he asked. We must be prepared to use them! Had we feet, and hands? We must make ready to stamp, and clap! Had we sides? They would be split! Tears? We would shed buckets of them! Eyes?

    `Stretch 'em, now, in wonder! Orchestra, please. Limes-men, if you will.' He struck the table with his gavel — clack! — so that the candle-flame dipped. `I give you, the marvellous, the musical, the very, very merry, Merry' — he struck the table again — `Randalls!'

    The curtain quivered, then rose. There was a seaside backdrop to the stage and, upon the boards themselves, real sand; and over this strolled four gay figures in holiday gear: two ladies — one dark, one fair — with parasols; and two tall gents, one with a ukulele on a strap. They sang `All the Girls are Lovely by the Seaside', very nicely; then the ukulele player did a solo, and the ladies lifted their skirts for a spot of soft-shoe dancing on the sand. For a first turn, they were good. We cheered them; and Tricky thanked us very graciously for our appreciation.

    The next act was a comedian, the next a mentalist — a lady in evening dress and gloves, who stood blindfolded upon the stage while her husband moved among the audience with a slate, inviting people to write numbers and names upon it with a piece of chalk, for her to guess.

    `Imagine the number floating through the air in flames of scarlet,' said the man impressively, `and searing its way into my wife's brain, through her brow.' We frowned and squinted at the stage, and the lady staggered a little, and raised her hands to her temples.

    `The Power,' she said, `it is very strong tonight. Ah, I feel it burning!'

    After this there was an acrobatic troupe — three men in spangles who turned somersaults through hoops, and stood on one another's shoulders. At the climax of their act they formed a kind of human loop, and rolled about the stage to a tune from the orchestra. We clapped at that; but it was too hot for acrobatics, and there was a general shuffling and whispering throughout this act, as boys were sent with orders to the bar, and returned with bottles and glasses and mugs that had to be handed, noisily, down the rows, past heads and laps and grasping fingers. I glanced at Alice: she had removed her hat and was fanning herself with it, and her cheeks were very red. I pushed my own little bonnet to the back of my head, leaned upon the rail before me with my chin upon my knuckles, and closed my eyes. I heard Tricky rise and call for silence with his gavel.

    `Ladies and gentlemen,' he cried, `a little treat for you now. A little bit of helegance and top-drawer style. If you've champagne in your glasses' — there was an ironical cheering at this — `raise them now. If you've beer — why, beer's got bubbles, don't it? Raise that too! Above all, raise your voices, as I give to you, direct from the Phoenix Theatre, Dover, our very own Kentish swell, our diminutive Faversham masher ... Miss Kitty' — clack! — `Butler!'

    There was a burst of handclapping and a few damp whoops. The orchestra struck up with some jolly number, and I heard the creak and whisper of the rising curtain. All unwillingly I opened my eyes — then I opened them wider, and lifted my head. The heat, my weariness, were quite forgotten. Piercing the shadows of the naked stage was a single shaft of rosy limelight, and in the centre of this there was a girl: the most marvellous girl — I knew it at once! — that I had ever seen.

    Of course, we had had male impersonator turns at the Palace before; but in 1888, in the provincial halls, the masher acts were not the things they are today. When Nelly Power had sung `The Last of the Dandies' to us six months before she had worn tights and bullion fringe, just like a ballet-girl — only carried a cane and a billycock hat to make her boyish. Kitty Butler did not wear tights or spangles. She was, as Tricky had billed her, a kind of perfect West-End swell. She wore a suit — a handsome gentleman's suit, cut to her size, and lined at the cuffs and the flaps with flashing silk. There was a rose in her lapel, and lavender gloves at her pocket. From beneath her waistcoat shone a stiff-fronted shirt of snowy white, with a stand-up collar two inches high. Around the collar was a white bow-tie; and on her head there was a topper. When she took the topper off — as she did now to salute the audience with a gay `Hallo!' — one saw that her hair was perfectly cropped.

    It was the hair, I think, which drew me most. If I had ever seen women with hair as short as hers, it was because they had spent time in hospital or prison; or because they were mad. They could never have looked like Kitty Butler. Her hair fitted her head like a little cap that had been sewn, just for her, by some nimble-fingered milliner. I would say it was brown; brown, however, is too dull a word for it. It was, rather, the kind of brown you might hear sung about — a nut-brown, or a russet. It was almost, perhaps, the colour of chocolate — but then chocolate has no lustre, and this hair shone in the blaze of the limes like taffeta. It curled at her temple, slightly, and over her ears; and when she turned her head a little to put her hat back on, I saw a strip of pale flesh at the nape of her neck where the collar ended and the hairline began that - for all the fire of the hot, hot hall — made me shiver.

    She looked, I suppose, like a very pretty boy, for her face was a perfect oval, and her eyes were large and dark at the lashes, and her lips were rosy and full. Her figure, too, was boy-like and slender — yet rounded, vaguely but unmistakably, at the bosom, the stomach, and the hips, in a way no real boy's ever was; and her shoes, I noticed after a moment, had two-inch heels to them. But she strode like a boy, and stood like one, with her feet far apart and her hands thrust carelessly into her trouser pockets, and her head at an arrogant angle, at the very front of the stage; and when she sang, her voice was a boy's voice — sweet and terribly true.

    Her effect upon that over-heated hall was wonderful. Like me, my neighbours all sat up, and gazed at her with shining eyes. Her songs were all well-chosen ones — things like `Drink Up, Boys!', and `Sweethearts and Wives', which the likes of G. H. Macdermott had already made famous, and with which we could all, in consequence, join in — though it was peculiarly thrilling to have them sung to us, not by a gent, but by a girl, in neck-tie and trousers. In between each song she addressed herself, in a swaggering, confidential tone, to the audience, and exchanged little bits of nonsense with Tricky Reeves at his chairman's table. Her speaking voice was like her singing one — strong and healthy, and wonderfully warm upon the ear. Her accent was sometimes music-hall cockney, sometimes theatrical-genteel, sometimes pure broad Kent.

    Her set lasted no longer than the customary fifteen minutes or so, but she was cheered and shouted back on to the stage at the end of that time twice over. Her final song was a gentle one — a ballad about roses and a lost sweetheart. As she sang she removed her hat and held it to her bosom; then she pulled the flower from her lapel and placed it against her cheek, and seemed to weep a little. The audience, in sympathy, let out one huge collective sigh, and bit their lips to hear her boyish tones grow suddenly so tender.

    All at once, however, she raised her eyes and gazed at us over her knuckles: we saw that she wasn't weeping at all, but smiling — and then, suddenly, winking, hugely and roguishly. Very swiftly she stepped once again to the front of the stage, and gazed into the stalls for the prettiest girl. When she found her, she raised her hand and the rose went flying over the shimmer of the footlights, over the orchestra-pit, to land in the pretty girl's lap.

    We went wild for her then. We roared and stamped and she, all gallant, raised her hat to us and, waving, took her leave. We called for her, but there were no more encores. The curtain fell, the orchestra played; Tricky struck his gavel upon his table, blew out his candle, and it was the interval.

I peered, blinking, into the seats below, trying to catch sight of the girl who had been thrown the flower. I could not think of anything more wonderful, at that moment, than to receive a rose from Kitty Butler's hand.