Well, now, it seems that our Pussie has matured into a full-grown cat."
This was an unusual exercise in wit for Mrs. Aspinwall, and she looked down the table with a mild gratification as all but Dorothy laughed.
"My father admires Mrs. Wharton," the latter observed, as if this should lead to a general retraction.
"Well, your father always had rather advanced ideas. In my opinion they sit better with gentlemen than with ladies."
"Oh, do you know my father, Mrs. Aspinwall?" Dorothy asked with a surprise that she did not appear to consider might be rude.
"I
did
know him, certainly. Again in Newport, in our younger days. It was a smaller society then. You might say that everybody knew everybody. My father used to say of your father: 'Watch that young man. He's going to make his mark.'"
The extraordinary thing about Horace's mother was the way she could make her judgments appear absolute. Even Dorothy seemed to react as if Mr. Stonor had received some kind of ultimate accolade. What was it to have made a fortune or even sat in the cabinet of President Cleveland (a Democrat, after all) compared with the distinction of having attracted the notice of an old Newporter like Beverly Beekman on a summer day in 1880?
Horace seemed very pleased at Dorothy's reception by his family. I believe that he accepted as praise from the heart the perfunctory approval of the evening that she may have conceded to him in the cab when he took her home. The sainted Dorothy could speak nothing but the truth, could she? At any rate when he came back and after we had retired to his bedroom, which we shared, he kept me up half the night singing the praises of his "wonderful girl." He also professed great gratification at the impression I had apparently made on her.
"She said she was glad I at last had an interesting friend and not just another New England church school type."
Horace had charm, but he could be a bore. I suppose most people in love can be.
I returned to New Haven that Sunday morning, as I had a paper to prepare for a Monday class, but Horace stayed on to lunch at the Stonors' and escort Dorothy in the afternoon to an exhibit of miniatures at the Metropolitan Museum. He would take a late afternoon train back and said he would drop by my room in the evening. But nothing in his plan prepared me for the pale face and reddened eyes that confronted me when I answered a late knock on my door.
"It's all over!" he exclaimed dramatically and stumbled past me to slump on my sofa.
"What's all over?"
"Me and Dorothy. Or rather me."
He sat up suddenly straight now, holding himself very still, as if the least movement might cause a twinge of pain.
"I take it then she's sent you packing."
"Well, not quite. She says we can still be friends."
"That's the usual way, isn't it?"
At this he began actually to sob, and I turned away in embarrassment.
"I'm sorry, Maury." He wiped his eyes. "I'll try not to be such an ass. She sprang it on me in the museum, right in front of that Sargent painting of the three sisters in white. She's going abroad with her father for three months."
"Is that against the law?"
"But they're going to meet that oily protégé of her father's, Guy Thorp, in Marseille! He's going to join them for a Mediterranean cruise on a yacht Mr. Stonor has chartered. I told her she'd meet all kinds of dukes and princes and never give another thought to Horace Aspinwall!"
He looked more fourteen than twenty as he said this.
"And what did she say to
that?
" I asked roughly. "That she never would? If she did, you deserved it."
"No! She said she'd always value my friendship. But she got furious when I told her she'd probably come back engaged to Thorp."
"I don't wonder. It'll be your own fault if she does."
He looked aghast. "How will I have done that?"
"By whimpering. By playing the little boy who doesn't dare so much as touch his goddess's fingertips. What woman wants to be treated that way? Except perhaps some frigid old maid,
This was an unusual exercise in wit for Mrs. Aspinwall, and she looked down the table with a mild gratification as all but Dorothy laughed.
"My father admires Mrs. Wharton," the latter observed, as if this should lead to a general retraction.
"Well, your father always had rather advanced ideas. In my opinion they sit better with gentlemen than with ladies."
"Oh, do you know my father, Mrs. Aspinwall?" Dorothy asked with a surprise that she did not appear to consider might be rude.
"I
did
know him, certainly. Again in Newport, in our younger days. It was a smaller society then. You might say that everybody knew everybody. My father used to say of your father: 'Watch that young man. He's going to make his mark.'"
The extraordinary thing about Horace's mother was the way she could make her judgments appear absolute. Even Dorothy seemed to react as if Mr. Stonor had received some kind of ultimate accolade. What was it to have made a fortune or even sat in the cabinet of President Cleveland (a Democrat, after all) compared with the distinction of having attracted the notice of an old Newporter like Beverly Beekman on a summer day in 1880?
Horace seemed very pleased at Dorothy's reception by his family. I believe that he accepted as praise from the heart the perfunctory approval of the evening that she may have conceded to him in the cab when he took her home. The sainted Dorothy could speak nothing but the truth, could she? At any rate when he came back and after we had retired to his bedroom, which we shared, he kept me up half the night singing the praises of his "wonderful girl." He also professed great gratification at the impression I had apparently made on her.
"She said she was glad I at last had an interesting friend and not just another New England church school type."
Horace had charm, but he could be a bore. I suppose most people in love can be.
I returned to New Haven that Sunday morning, as I had a paper to prepare for a Monday class, but Horace stayed on to lunch at the Stonors' and escort Dorothy in the afternoon to an exhibit of miniatures at the Metropolitan Museum. He would take a late afternoon train back and said he would drop by my room in the evening. But nothing in his plan prepared me for the pale face and reddened eyes that confronted me when I answered a late knock on my door.
"It's all over!" he exclaimed dramatically and stumbled past me to slump on my sofa.
"What's all over?"
"Me and Dorothy. Or rather me."
He sat up suddenly straight now, holding himself very still, as if the least movement might cause a twinge of pain.
"I take it then she's sent you packing."
"Well, not quite. She says we can still be friends."
"That's the usual way, isn't it?"
At this he began actually to sob, and I turned away in embarrassment.
"I'm sorry, Maury." He wiped his eyes. "I'll try not to be such an ass. She sprang it on me in the museum, right in front of that Sargent painting of the three sisters in white. She's going abroad with her father for three months."
"Is that against the law?"
"But they're going to meet that oily protégé of her father's, Guy Thorp, in Marseille! He's going to join them for a Mediterranean cruise on a yacht Mr. Stonor has chartered. I told her she'd meet all kinds of dukes and princes and never give another thought to Horace Aspinwall!"
He looked more fourteen than twenty as he said this.
"And what did she say to
that?
" I asked roughly. "That she never would? If she did, you deserved it."
"No! She said she'd always value my friendship. But she got furious when I told her she'd probably come back engaged to Thorp."
"I don't wonder. It'll be your own fault if she does."
He looked aghast. "How will I have done that?"
"By whimpering. By playing the little boy who doesn't dare so much as touch his goddess's fingertips. What woman wants to be treated that way? Except perhaps some frigid old maid,
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