That was Mrs. Brunn, now in the realm of the legend where her brother Francis was waiting before.
They were in a class before stylized rainbow lycras, elaborate face paintings and sophisticated aseptic soundtracks. They were in a class when performing was a matter of personality, smiles, continuous seduction, masterful interaction with a live swing band, and a concept of costumes as going to a court ball twice daily.
Lottie and Francis are now perhaps doing the same up there, very far in the sky, in the same world where this class can last forever: the class of Borra the king of pickpockets; or the gentleman magician Channing Pollock; of the elegant chaotic George Carl; the absurd but aristocratic dancing Doll Family of midgets; the lord of horsemanship Albert Schumann, or Count Basie and his band. An array of smiles, subtle touches of shomanship, white ties, silk dresses, personal lobby photos polished as new shoes, feats of acrobatics or legerdemain presented with the lightness of a joke, to distracted night-club audiences mesmerized for seven long minutes when the world and all is cold wars seemed to stop.
What a century it was. What performers they were.