Lisa enjoyed seeing the man in action. She enjoyed seeing the way every eye turned toward the head of the table, her own included, like so many pilgrims come to consult the oracle. And the oracle sat like a dark-robed queen, her thin, gloved hands stroking the catch of a voluminous handbag. It was an old bag, old and very expensive; but the gloves, Lisa noted, quite apropos of nothing, had a rent seam on one finger.
Then the oracle answered.
“Let the young man come in.”
“But, Nydia,” Watts protested.
“Let him come in, Tod!”
Ruth Graham was right. There was nothing honorary about Nydia Cornish’s position on the committee. Tod went to the door and came back a moment later with a tall, good-looking young man whose ruddy face was familiar with the sun and whose brown hands, although they held a roll of blueprints at the moment, looked as if they might be familiar with a hammer and saw.
“Mr. Joel Warren, of the Cushing Construction Company,” Tod explained. “Mr. Warren, suppose you take over from here.”
Lisa looked at Curran Dawes. He nodded. “My nephew,” he whispered.
“A fine-looking boy,” Lisa murmured.
“I think so.”
“Does
she
know?”
Joel Warren was already into his explanation of the blueprints and accompanying cost sheets. The question could mean only one thing. Lisa, oblivious of Joel, was staring at the head of the table.
“About Joel and Marta?” the professor asked. “Really, Miss Bancroft, I can’t imagine anything happening in or around Bellville that Nydia Cornish doesn’t know.”
“And she approves?”
“Is there any reason why she shouldn’t?”
It was the wrong question asked in the wrong way. The professor was still the doting “parent,” and Lisa couldn’t answer him at all. It had something to do with the contrast between those workman’s hands and the prestige of that old mansion high on the top of The Bluffs. But Nydia seemed cordial enough to young Warren. She leaned forward, listening intently to his words. Occasionally she asked a question, brief and pertinent. Lisa abandoned her whispered conversation with the professor.
“I still say it’s too much of a gamble,” Watts persisted. “All of those extra bleachers out at the athletic field may just go empty.”
“With Sir Anthony Sutton conducting the orchestra?” Tod asked.
“Sir Anthony! That’s another thing I don’t like. Why did we have to send all the way to London for a conductor this year? What’s the matter with the way we’ve been doing things for the past eight years? The memorial fund isn’t a bottomless pit, you know.”
“Hear, hear,” the professor murmured in Lisa’s ear. “Good old Stanley. He must be in charge of pay schedules for the high-school staff.”
“Well, now I think—”
Miss Oberon began to speak, then stopped as if too surprised by the sound of her own voice to remember what came next. It wasn’t important anyway. Nydia Cornish had made up her mind.
“Young man,” she said, “is there time enough to complete the construction of these additional facilities before the festival begins?”
Joel Warren smiled. It was a very nice smile, Lisa thought.
“Plenty of time, Mrs. Cornish. I’ve been over the athletic grounds myself, and I’ll supervise this job personally if my company gets the contract.”
The assurance seemed to please Nydia. She didn’t return the smile, but she gave no evidence of any doubt or lack of confidence in Joel Warren. If she disapproved his courtship of Marta her attitude was a masterpiece of deception. She nodded and then fell silent for a few seconds. When she spoke again her head rose high enough so that everyone at the table could see all of the face beneath the wide-brimmed hat.
“As you all know,” she said, looking at no one in particular, “I founded this award as a memorial to my husband who perished so tragically seventeen years ago. I wanted to perpetuate his name in a manner fitting his genius by
Then the oracle answered.
“Let the young man come in.”
“But, Nydia,” Watts protested.
“Let him come in, Tod!”
Ruth Graham was right. There was nothing honorary about Nydia Cornish’s position on the committee. Tod went to the door and came back a moment later with a tall, good-looking young man whose ruddy face was familiar with the sun and whose brown hands, although they held a roll of blueprints at the moment, looked as if they might be familiar with a hammer and saw.
“Mr. Joel Warren, of the Cushing Construction Company,” Tod explained. “Mr. Warren, suppose you take over from here.”
Lisa looked at Curran Dawes. He nodded. “My nephew,” he whispered.
“A fine-looking boy,” Lisa murmured.
“I think so.”
“Does
she
know?”
Joel Warren was already into his explanation of the blueprints and accompanying cost sheets. The question could mean only one thing. Lisa, oblivious of Joel, was staring at the head of the table.
“About Joel and Marta?” the professor asked. “Really, Miss Bancroft, I can’t imagine anything happening in or around Bellville that Nydia Cornish doesn’t know.”
“And she approves?”
“Is there any reason why she shouldn’t?”
It was the wrong question asked in the wrong way. The professor was still the doting “parent,” and Lisa couldn’t answer him at all. It had something to do with the contrast between those workman’s hands and the prestige of that old mansion high on the top of The Bluffs. But Nydia seemed cordial enough to young Warren. She leaned forward, listening intently to his words. Occasionally she asked a question, brief and pertinent. Lisa abandoned her whispered conversation with the professor.
“I still say it’s too much of a gamble,” Watts persisted. “All of those extra bleachers out at the athletic field may just go empty.”
“With Sir Anthony Sutton conducting the orchestra?” Tod asked.
“Sir Anthony! That’s another thing I don’t like. Why did we have to send all the way to London for a conductor this year? What’s the matter with the way we’ve been doing things for the past eight years? The memorial fund isn’t a bottomless pit, you know.”
“Hear, hear,” the professor murmured in Lisa’s ear. “Good old Stanley. He must be in charge of pay schedules for the high-school staff.”
“Well, now I think—”
Miss Oberon began to speak, then stopped as if too surprised by the sound of her own voice to remember what came next. It wasn’t important anyway. Nydia Cornish had made up her mind.
“Young man,” she said, “is there time enough to complete the construction of these additional facilities before the festival begins?”
Joel Warren smiled. It was a very nice smile, Lisa thought.
“Plenty of time, Mrs. Cornish. I’ve been over the athletic grounds myself, and I’ll supervise this job personally if my company gets the contract.”
The assurance seemed to please Nydia. She didn’t return the smile, but she gave no evidence of any doubt or lack of confidence in Joel Warren. If she disapproved his courtship of Marta her attitude was a masterpiece of deception. She nodded and then fell silent for a few seconds. When she spoke again her head rose high enough so that everyone at the table could see all of the face beneath the wide-brimmed hat.
“As you all know,” she said, looking at no one in particular, “I founded this award as a memorial to my husband who perished so tragically seventeen years ago. I wanted to perpetuate his name in a manner fitting his genius by
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