it, as the acquiescence in an impertinence, as an act of complicity with the offender and of disloyalty to Uncle Jo. Poor Uncle Jo! she thought, with a rush of affectionate pity for the old gentleman. For a moment she felt quite ashamed of herself. The trouble, of course, was that Dr. Obispo was so handsome; that he made her laugh; that she liked his admiration; that it was fun to lead him on and see how heâd act. She even enjoyed getting mad at him, when he was rude, which he constantly was.
âI suppose you think youâre Douglas Fairbanks, Junior,â she said, making an attempt to be scathing; then walked away with as much dignity as her two little strips of white satin would permit her to assume and, leaning against a battlement, looked down at the plain below. Ant-like figures moved among the orange trees. She wondered idly what they were doing; then her mind wandered to other, more interesting and personal matters. To Sig and the fact that she couldnât help feeling rather thrilled when he was around, even when he acted the way he had done just now. Some day, maybeâsome day, just to see what it was like and if things got a bit dull out here at the castle . . . Poor Uncle Jo! she reflected. But then what could he expectâat his age and at hers? The unexpected thing was that, in all these months, she hadnât yet given him any reason for being jealousâunless, of course, you counted Enid and Mary Lou; which she didnât; because she really wasnât that way at all; and when it did happen, it was nothing more than a kind of little accident; nice, but not a bit important. Whereas with Sig, if it ever happened, the thing would be different; even though it wasnât very serious; which it wouldnât beânot like with Walt, for example, or even with little Buster back in Portland. It would be different from the accidents with Enid and Mary Lou, because, with a man, those things generally did matter a good deal, even when you didnât mean them to matter. Which was the only reason for not doing them, outside of their being sins, of course; but somehow that never seemed to count very much when the boy was a real good looker (which one had to admit Sig was, even though it was rather in the style of Adolphe Menjou; but, come to think of it, it was those dark ones with oil on their hair that had always given her the biggest kick). And when youâd had a couple of drinks, maybe, and you felt youâd like some thrills, why then it never even occurred to you that it was a sin; and then one thing led to another and before you knew what had happenedâwell, it had happened; and really she just couldnât believe it was as bad as Father OâReilly said it was; and anyhow Our Lady would be a lot more understanding and forgiving than he was; and what about the way Father OâReilly ate his food, whenever he came to dinner? like a hog, there wasnât any other word for it; and wasnât gluttony just as bad as the other thing? So who was he to talk like that?
âWell, and howâs the patient?â Dr. Obispo inquired in the parody of a bedside manner, as he took Virginiaâs place on the couch. He was in the highest of spirits. His work in the laboratory was coming along unexpectedly well; that new preparation of bile salts had done wonders for his liver; the rearmament boom had sent his aircraft shares up another three points; and it was obvious that Virginia wasnât going to hold out much longer. âHowâs the little invalid this morning?â he went on, enriching his parody with the caricature of an English accent; for he had done a year of postgraduate work at Oxford.
Mr. Stoyte growled inarticulately. There was something about Dr. Obispoâs facetiousness that always enraged him. In some not easily definable way it had the quality of a deliberate insult. Mr. Stoyte was always made to feel that Obispoâs apparently good-natured
âI suppose you think youâre Douglas Fairbanks, Junior,â she said, making an attempt to be scathing; then walked away with as much dignity as her two little strips of white satin would permit her to assume and, leaning against a battlement, looked down at the plain below. Ant-like figures moved among the orange trees. She wondered idly what they were doing; then her mind wandered to other, more interesting and personal matters. To Sig and the fact that she couldnât help feeling rather thrilled when he was around, even when he acted the way he had done just now. Some day, maybeâsome day, just to see what it was like and if things got a bit dull out here at the castle . . . Poor Uncle Jo! she reflected. But then what could he expectâat his age and at hers? The unexpected thing was that, in all these months, she hadnât yet given him any reason for being jealousâunless, of course, you counted Enid and Mary Lou; which she didnât; because she really wasnât that way at all; and when it did happen, it was nothing more than a kind of little accident; nice, but not a bit important. Whereas with Sig, if it ever happened, the thing would be different; even though it wasnât very serious; which it wouldnât beânot like with Walt, for example, or even with little Buster back in Portland. It would be different from the accidents with Enid and Mary Lou, because, with a man, those things generally did matter a good deal, even when you didnât mean them to matter. Which was the only reason for not doing them, outside of their being sins, of course; but somehow that never seemed to count very much when the boy was a real good looker (which one had to admit Sig was, even though it was rather in the style of Adolphe Menjou; but, come to think of it, it was those dark ones with oil on their hair that had always given her the biggest kick). And when youâd had a couple of drinks, maybe, and you felt youâd like some thrills, why then it never even occurred to you that it was a sin; and then one thing led to another and before you knew what had happenedâwell, it had happened; and really she just couldnât believe it was as bad as Father OâReilly said it was; and anyhow Our Lady would be a lot more understanding and forgiving than he was; and what about the way Father OâReilly ate his food, whenever he came to dinner? like a hog, there wasnât any other word for it; and wasnât gluttony just as bad as the other thing? So who was he to talk like that?
âWell, and howâs the patient?â Dr. Obispo inquired in the parody of a bedside manner, as he took Virginiaâs place on the couch. He was in the highest of spirits. His work in the laboratory was coming along unexpectedly well; that new preparation of bile salts had done wonders for his liver; the rearmament boom had sent his aircraft shares up another three points; and it was obvious that Virginia wasnât going to hold out much longer. âHowâs the little invalid this morning?â he went on, enriching his parody with the caricature of an English accent; for he had done a year of postgraduate work at Oxford.
Mr. Stoyte growled inarticulately. There was something about Dr. Obispoâs facetiousness that always enraged him. In some not easily definable way it had the quality of a deliberate insult. Mr. Stoyte was always made to feel that Obispoâs apparently good-natured
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