naturalistic play. I want mine to be in blank verse."
Of course I was playing with her. She stared at me suspiciously.
"My father doesn't act in a naturalistic play. Do you mean something like Ibsen? My father is very much concerned with history and philosophy. He's a great reader. And it may interest you to know that he's a friend of Mr. Adams, the historian, in Washington, and Mr. Adams sees only a small number of intellectual men."
"Oh, I know that," I responded airily. "Billy Phelps at Yale let me read his copy of
The Education of Henry Adams.
It's been privately printed. He mentions your father, you know. He says that like John Hay and Whitelaw Reid he owed his 'free hand' to marriage."
Dorothy's countenance lengthened ominously. "And just what does that imply, Mr. Leonard?"
"I assume it means that all three men married money. Wasn't that the case?"
Her gaze turned to Horace across the room with his sisters. "I think I had better join the others." She rose, but paused when I jumped up to protest.
"You disappoint me, Miss Stonor. I thought you were a modern woman."
"And should a modern woman sit by while her father is traduced?"
"Do you call being mentioned by our greatest historian a traducement?"
She resumed her seat at this, troubled. "I haven't read Mr. Adams's book. I know he sent Daddy a copy."
"Would he have sent it if it contained offensive matter?"
"No, I suppose not. And I suppose there are things a historian can mention that would not be proper on social occasions."
"And are you and I to be confined to what is said or not said on social occasions?"
She gave me a clear look. "All right, no, Mr. Leonard. But I want you to know that my father has made on his own a much larger fortune than what his first wife brought him."
I felt elated. I had made her break a tabu! She was actually talking about money. I was going on to point out that her father had at least got his start with his first wife's money, but I decided that would be pressing her too far.
"It can't be easy, being the daughter of such a famous man," I said, in a more conciliatory tone. "Horace says you've never shown the tiniest bit of vanity about it."
"Oh, Horace is too kind about me altogether." She laughed now, almost relaxed. "But you're right that it's not always easy. I remember, when I was in my last year at Miss Chapin's School, one of President Roosevelt's nieces or cousins, I forget which, said right out in class that Uncle Thee had called my father 'a malefactor of great wealth.'"
"I trust you didn't take
that
lying down."
"You can be sure I did not, Mr. Leonard!" Her eyes shone becomingly. "I retorted that my father had described the president as 'an irresponsible demagogue.' But, oh, I hated it!"
Mrs. Aspinwall now made her belated entrance with her usual air of having had to use a goodly portion of her store of courage to rise from a bed of pain. In the dining room the conversation, marred by an occasional explosion of giggles from Horace's sisters and his father's veiled teeth cleansing, was led by his mother. She asked a few quiet, banal questions about a course in literature that Dorothy was auditing at Columbia.
"I suppose you read all the great classics, Cooper and Hawthorne and Mrs. Stowe."
"Oh, yes, we read them," Dorothy confirmed. "But the course takes us right up to date also. We have read Howells and Henry James. And next week we're going to discuss Mrs. Wharton's
House of Mirth.
"
"Edith Wharton? You surprise me, Miss Stonor. I shouldn't have thought her work would be considered in a serious course of American letters."
"You don't like her books?"
"I don't say they're not entertaining. But they are full of society gossip. I used to know her in Newport when she was Miss Jones. Pussie, she was called then. Her parents were friends of my parents, but she gave herself airs. I think she considered that she was too intellectual for Newport. We were only good enough, I suppose, to be made fun of in her fiction.
Of course I was playing with her. She stared at me suspiciously.
"My father doesn't act in a naturalistic play. Do you mean something like Ibsen? My father is very much concerned with history and philosophy. He's a great reader. And it may interest you to know that he's a friend of Mr. Adams, the historian, in Washington, and Mr. Adams sees only a small number of intellectual men."
"Oh, I know that," I responded airily. "Billy Phelps at Yale let me read his copy of
The Education of Henry Adams.
It's been privately printed. He mentions your father, you know. He says that like John Hay and Whitelaw Reid he owed his 'free hand' to marriage."
Dorothy's countenance lengthened ominously. "And just what does that imply, Mr. Leonard?"
"I assume it means that all three men married money. Wasn't that the case?"
Her gaze turned to Horace across the room with his sisters. "I think I had better join the others." She rose, but paused when I jumped up to protest.
"You disappoint me, Miss Stonor. I thought you were a modern woman."
"And should a modern woman sit by while her father is traduced?"
"Do you call being mentioned by our greatest historian a traducement?"
She resumed her seat at this, troubled. "I haven't read Mr. Adams's book. I know he sent Daddy a copy."
"Would he have sent it if it contained offensive matter?"
"No, I suppose not. And I suppose there are things a historian can mention that would not be proper on social occasions."
"And are you and I to be confined to what is said or not said on social occasions?"
She gave me a clear look. "All right, no, Mr. Leonard. But I want you to know that my father has made on his own a much larger fortune than what his first wife brought him."
I felt elated. I had made her break a tabu! She was actually talking about money. I was going on to point out that her father had at least got his start with his first wife's money, but I decided that would be pressing her too far.
"It can't be easy, being the daughter of such a famous man," I said, in a more conciliatory tone. "Horace says you've never shown the tiniest bit of vanity about it."
"Oh, Horace is too kind about me altogether." She laughed now, almost relaxed. "But you're right that it's not always easy. I remember, when I was in my last year at Miss Chapin's School, one of President Roosevelt's nieces or cousins, I forget which, said right out in class that Uncle Thee had called my father 'a malefactor of great wealth.'"
"I trust you didn't take
that
lying down."
"You can be sure I did not, Mr. Leonard!" Her eyes shone becomingly. "I retorted that my father had described the president as 'an irresponsible demagogue.' But, oh, I hated it!"
Mrs. Aspinwall now made her belated entrance with her usual air of having had to use a goodly portion of her store of courage to rise from a bed of pain. In the dining room the conversation, marred by an occasional explosion of giggles from Horace's sisters and his father's veiled teeth cleansing, was led by his mother. She asked a few quiet, banal questions about a course in literature that Dorothy was auditing at Columbia.
"I suppose you read all the great classics, Cooper and Hawthorne and Mrs. Stowe."
"Oh, yes, we read them," Dorothy confirmed. "But the course takes us right up to date also. We have read Howells and Henry James. And next week we're going to discuss Mrs. Wharton's
House of Mirth.
"
"Edith Wharton? You surprise me, Miss Stonor. I shouldn't have thought her work would be considered in a serious course of American letters."
"You don't like her books?"
"I don't say they're not entertaining. But they are full of society gossip. I used to know her in Newport when she was Miss Jones. Pussie, she was called then. Her parents were friends of my parents, but she gave herself airs. I think she considered that she was too intellectual for Newport. We were only good enough, I suppose, to be made fun of in her fiction.
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