on.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to a service at St. Patrick’s. Will you take me some time?”
“What do you mean, a service? Do you mean Mass?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“All right, I’ll take you some time. We’ll get married in St. Pat’s.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
He stopped dead. “Listen, Isabel, will you do me a favor? A big favor?”
“Why, I don’t know. What is it?”
“Will you just go on being a Bryn Mawr girl, nice, attractive, worried about what Leuba taught you, polite, well-bred—”
“Yes, yes, and what?”
“And leave the vulgarities of the vernacular to me? When you want to be slangy, when you want to make a wisecrack, stifle the impulse.”
“But I didn’t make any wisecrack.”
“Oh-ho-ho, you’re telling me.”
“But I still don’t see what you mean, Jimmy.”
“They ought to take those fences down and let the people see what they’re doing. I am an old construction-watcher, and I think I will take it up with Ivy Lee.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was just thinking as we passed where they’re building Radio City, if they took the fences away I’d be able to check up on the progress and report back to the Rockefellers. Ivy Lee is their public relations counsel.”
“Ivy Lee. It sounds like a girl’s name.”
“You ought to hear the whole name.”
“What is it?”
“Ivy Ledbetter Lee. He gets $250,000 a year. Here we are, and we probably won’t be able to get a table.”
They got a table. They knew exactly what they wanted, including all the coffee you could drink for the price of one cup. On the dinner you could even have all the food you wanted for the prix fixe.
“What are we up to this afternoon?”
“Oh, whatever you like,” she said.
“I want to see ‘The Public Enemy.’ ”
“Oh, divine. James Cagney.”
“Oh, you like Cagney?”
“Adore him.”
“Why?” he said.
“Oh, he’s so attractive. So tough. Why—I just thought of something.”
“What?”
“He’s—I hope you don’t mind this—but he’s a little like you.”
“Uh. Well, I’ll phone and see what time the main picture goes on.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’ve seen it and you haven’t, and I don’t want you to see the ending first.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
“I’ll remind you of that after you’ve seen the picture. I’ll go downstairs and phone. If King Prajadhipok comes in and tries to pick you up it won’t be a compliment, so have him put out.”
“Oh, on account of his eyes. See, I got it.”
• • •
Will you try that number again, please?” said the old man. He held the telephone in a way that was a protest against the hand-set type of phone, a routine protest against something new. He held it with two hands, the one hand where it should be, the other hand cupped under the part he spoke into. “It’s Stuyvesant, operator. Are you dialing S, T, U? . . . Well, I thought perhaps you were dialing S, T, Y.”
He waited, but after more than five minutes he gave up again.
Joab Ellery Reddington, A.B. (Wesleyan), M.A. (Harvard), Ph.D. (Wesleyan), had come to New York for a special purpose, but the success of his mission depended upon his first completing the telephone call. Without making that connection the trip was futile. Well enough, too well, he knew the address, and the too many taxicabs, the bus systems, the subway and elevated, the street car lines all helped to annihilate space and time for anyone who wanted to present himself in person at the door of the home of Gloria Wandrous. But one of the last things in the world Dr. Reddington wanted to do was to be found in the neighborhood of the home of Gloria Wandrous. The very last thing he wanted to do was to be seen with her, and it went back from there to the other extreme: the thing he wanted most, eventually, was to be so far removed from the company of Gloria Wandrous, from any association with her, that, as he once heard a Mist’ Bones say to
“I’ve always wanted to go to a service at St. Patrick’s. Will you take me some time?”
“What do you mean, a service? Do you mean Mass?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“All right, I’ll take you some time. We’ll get married in St. Pat’s.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
He stopped dead. “Listen, Isabel, will you do me a favor? A big favor?”
“Why, I don’t know. What is it?”
“Will you just go on being a Bryn Mawr girl, nice, attractive, worried about what Leuba taught you, polite, well-bred—”
“Yes, yes, and what?”
“And leave the vulgarities of the vernacular to me? When you want to be slangy, when you want to make a wisecrack, stifle the impulse.”
“But I didn’t make any wisecrack.”
“Oh-ho-ho, you’re telling me.”
“But I still don’t see what you mean, Jimmy.”
“They ought to take those fences down and let the people see what they’re doing. I am an old construction-watcher, and I think I will take it up with Ivy Lee.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was just thinking as we passed where they’re building Radio City, if they took the fences away I’d be able to check up on the progress and report back to the Rockefellers. Ivy Lee is their public relations counsel.”
“Ivy Lee. It sounds like a girl’s name.”
“You ought to hear the whole name.”
“What is it?”
“Ivy Ledbetter Lee. He gets $250,000 a year. Here we are, and we probably won’t be able to get a table.”
They got a table. They knew exactly what they wanted, including all the coffee you could drink for the price of one cup. On the dinner you could even have all the food you wanted for the prix fixe.
“What are we up to this afternoon?”
“Oh, whatever you like,” she said.
“I want to see ‘The Public Enemy.’ ”
“Oh, divine. James Cagney.”
“Oh, you like Cagney?”
“Adore him.”
“Why?” he said.
“Oh, he’s so attractive. So tough. Why—I just thought of something.”
“What?”
“He’s—I hope you don’t mind this—but he’s a little like you.”
“Uh. Well, I’ll phone and see what time the main picture goes on.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’ve seen it and you haven’t, and I don’t want you to see the ending first.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
“I’ll remind you of that after you’ve seen the picture. I’ll go downstairs and phone. If King Prajadhipok comes in and tries to pick you up it won’t be a compliment, so have him put out.”
“Oh, on account of his eyes. See, I got it.”
• • •
Will you try that number again, please?” said the old man. He held the telephone in a way that was a protest against the hand-set type of phone, a routine protest against something new. He held it with two hands, the one hand where it should be, the other hand cupped under the part he spoke into. “It’s Stuyvesant, operator. Are you dialing S, T, U? . . . Well, I thought perhaps you were dialing S, T, Y.”
He waited, but after more than five minutes he gave up again.
Joab Ellery Reddington, A.B. (Wesleyan), M.A. (Harvard), Ph.D. (Wesleyan), had come to New York for a special purpose, but the success of his mission depended upon his first completing the telephone call. Without making that connection the trip was futile. Well enough, too well, he knew the address, and the too many taxicabs, the bus systems, the subway and elevated, the street car lines all helped to annihilate space and time for anyone who wanted to present himself in person at the door of the home of Gloria Wandrous. But one of the last things in the world Dr. Reddington wanted to do was to be found in the neighborhood of the home of Gloria Wandrous. The very last thing he wanted to do was to be seen with her, and it went back from there to the other extreme: the thing he wanted most, eventually, was to be so far removed from the company of Gloria Wandrous, from any association with her, that, as he once heard a Mist’ Bones say to
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