feet.
“This wood’s all right,” I tell the manager, but he is intent now on attaining more sophisticated sensations, and merely wades on as fast as he can. It does not take us long to reach the charming, paved courts, heavy with rhododendron, and the sunken gardens, moontraps holding the pale moonlight in the cups of lilies floating on the artificial ponds or sliding brightly in segments on the black, shining water itself. We pass old stone and balustrades, Diana, a knight or two, and finally reach the splendid display or novelty provided by the organizers. This is some wonderful thing, made of chemicals and electricity, that resembles a rainbow or balloon. The dancing couples, I notice, frequently pause to comment on the effect. I look anxiously around to see if Arthur is in the vicinty. Someone approaches and asks us if we want a drink.
“Or do you want introductions? I could probably get you a drink. The press is heavy as you can see. There are too few waiters and those there are keep drinking themselves or strolling about as if they were guests. Still, we haven’t been introduced . Perhaps I’ve been guilty of a gross discourtesy—not actually but conceptually as it were. I was thinking, ‘perhaps they’d like to meet some of the important people who abound here this evening.’ And now it occurs to me that you may be important people yourselves. You may be celebrities—”
“A manager and his mate—” begins the manager. “A thirsty manager.”
“Ah, a manager. I study managers. I’m a pretty cool number. Managers abound. I find them everywhere so mine’s a fortunate profession. I was bred for it amidst the hay and the bells. I thought of it when the bells were still audible. Acutally I invented it, and now I practice it. But you’re tired. You’ve had a long journey and you don’t want to be studied this evening. Unlike the bells, you’re not a bell—”
“I’ve brought the drinks,” announces a small, attractive princess arriving with colored flasks. She hands us the glowing vessels and then links arms familiarly with the student we have just encountered. “Do you play anything?” she asks. “Run things? Or form things? Don’t listen to Toby.”
“No, don’t listen to me,” urges Toby. “What could you learn from me? A drift of faces—a blizzard of faces.”
“He studies too many managers,” complains the princess. “He complains of faces—as he puts it, a drift of faces before the eyes. I tell him it’s nonsense and to sink down deeper into the upholstery or take a spin in the country but he drifts back to the pavements and his drift of faces. It makes me think of marrying an Italian.”
“Like Maria,” I can not help exclaiming.
“Like many girls, noble or plebeian. I’m one of the nobleones, though you’d never guess it from the company I keep.”
“Why not change?” leers the manager. “I don’t know you people, but I could rock this Toby with a blast of something.”
“Perhaps later,” agrees the girl. “Though you’re an ugly, sweating brute. We speak our minds, we aristocrats.”
“What, leave me?” asks Toby. He smiles vivaciously and then stupidly and reads a large announcement pasted near some pens. “Before our trip, or some incident that’s bound to come, a bandaging, a fleet glance when we’re laced with gleams, parallax? It takes some explaining. I should take her to task,” he informs the manager. He turns to me. “She’ll tell him of certain towers and roots, combs, counterpanes—I know her ways. Let’s leave them —for a night.”
“Do you want me to leave you?” I ask the manager, although from the eager way with which he is reaching, or seeming about to reach, for the princess and the cool and yielding way with which she awaits his reach, it seems unlikely that either of them will be displeased by our departure.
He does not answer and so I turn, conscious of an unexpected sadness, towards Toby.
“Perhaps you could
“This wood’s all right,” I tell the manager, but he is intent now on attaining more sophisticated sensations, and merely wades on as fast as he can. It does not take us long to reach the charming, paved courts, heavy with rhododendron, and the sunken gardens, moontraps holding the pale moonlight in the cups of lilies floating on the artificial ponds or sliding brightly in segments on the black, shining water itself. We pass old stone and balustrades, Diana, a knight or two, and finally reach the splendid display or novelty provided by the organizers. This is some wonderful thing, made of chemicals and electricity, that resembles a rainbow or balloon. The dancing couples, I notice, frequently pause to comment on the effect. I look anxiously around to see if Arthur is in the vicinty. Someone approaches and asks us if we want a drink.
“Or do you want introductions? I could probably get you a drink. The press is heavy as you can see. There are too few waiters and those there are keep drinking themselves or strolling about as if they were guests. Still, we haven’t been introduced . Perhaps I’ve been guilty of a gross discourtesy—not actually but conceptually as it were. I was thinking, ‘perhaps they’d like to meet some of the important people who abound here this evening.’ And now it occurs to me that you may be important people yourselves. You may be celebrities—”
“A manager and his mate—” begins the manager. “A thirsty manager.”
“Ah, a manager. I study managers. I’m a pretty cool number. Managers abound. I find them everywhere so mine’s a fortunate profession. I was bred for it amidst the hay and the bells. I thought of it when the bells were still audible. Acutally I invented it, and now I practice it. But you’re tired. You’ve had a long journey and you don’t want to be studied this evening. Unlike the bells, you’re not a bell—”
“I’ve brought the drinks,” announces a small, attractive princess arriving with colored flasks. She hands us the glowing vessels and then links arms familiarly with the student we have just encountered. “Do you play anything?” she asks. “Run things? Or form things? Don’t listen to Toby.”
“No, don’t listen to me,” urges Toby. “What could you learn from me? A drift of faces—a blizzard of faces.”
“He studies too many managers,” complains the princess. “He complains of faces—as he puts it, a drift of faces before the eyes. I tell him it’s nonsense and to sink down deeper into the upholstery or take a spin in the country but he drifts back to the pavements and his drift of faces. It makes me think of marrying an Italian.”
“Like Maria,” I can not help exclaiming.
“Like many girls, noble or plebeian. I’m one of the nobleones, though you’d never guess it from the company I keep.”
“Why not change?” leers the manager. “I don’t know you people, but I could rock this Toby with a blast of something.”
“Perhaps later,” agrees the girl. “Though you’re an ugly, sweating brute. We speak our minds, we aristocrats.”
“What, leave me?” asks Toby. He smiles vivaciously and then stupidly and reads a large announcement pasted near some pens. “Before our trip, or some incident that’s bound to come, a bandaging, a fleet glance when we’re laced with gleams, parallax? It takes some explaining. I should take her to task,” he informs the manager. He turns to me. “She’ll tell him of certain towers and roots, combs, counterpanes—I know her ways. Let’s leave them —for a night.”
“Do you want me to leave you?” I ask the manager, although from the eager way with which he is reaching, or seeming about to reach, for the princess and the cool and yielding way with which she awaits his reach, it seems unlikely that either of them will be displeased by our departure.
He does not answer and so I turn, conscious of an unexpected sadness, towards Toby.
“Perhaps you could
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