translation. She noticed the American writers gathering at the side and signalling to her. But she remained in her seat. Then she saw them laughing, and in a moment Stephen had come down the aisle and leaned over her,
‘Come along, we’re playing hookey.’
They had their photographs taken in an ante-room, then Walden and Barrie and Stephen and Emily marched off along the Seine. Walden and Barrie were going to the Right Bank, Emily and Stephen turned left, went up the boulevard St-Michel and sat down in a café.
‘I knew your feet were tired,’ said he; ‘I know you by now. In a little while, when you’re rested, we’ll take a taxi to the Ile-de-la-Cité—it’s only a couple of minutes.’
‘Oh, that little island in the river that tags along after Notre-Dame?’
He said, ‘I’ve an uncle lives there, Uncle Maurice. He’s an old bachelor, an aesthete, a do-nothing and I’m like him. Or I should be if it weren’t that a hellgrammite bit me once and I’ve been biting my luck ever since.’
‘What’s a hellgrammite?’
‘A bug you use for fishing.’
‘A hellgrammite bit you?’
‘Yes, it really did. But I meant, one day I found out my family uses labour spies, goons, strike-breakers, the lurid lot. Someone told me, reproached me at Princeton. I didn’t believe it. I went and found out. I wrote a book about it. I’ll give it to you. A pamphlet it is— Labor Spies.’
‘What did the Howards say to the book?’
‘It was brought out by the left press and under a pseudonym—you know, Justin Clark, I told you. I knew Mother read it, for she had a quiet talk with me about all the good the Howards have done the country. She is very proud of their services to the country. Men on strike are undermining that good. She didn’t put it in those words.’
‘She didn’t mind?’
‘I’m her favourite son—the only one that is. I only mean to say, I’m really another Uncle Maurice and she is thankful I am not. He went to the Sorbonne—so did I for a year. He collects—all sorts of oddities, delicious objects that I like and admire. It took me years to understand him, for it seemed boyish to me—collecting. He goes to concerts just like me, has a faithful friend or two he loves—just a happy Howard.’
‘It’s such a beautiful way to live, the way you live: all with different personalities, leaving each other alone and admiring each other. A united family. I do love it. It’s like a picture gallery somewhere in Italy—all the portraits, elegantly drawn by some master of the day—tray raffinay. A friendly master—a court painter—not a hater of the rich. Till now, I never knew the rich were decent.’
He laughed, ‘I don’t think Anna thinks so; she knows too much, but she is a good woman; she won’t give her class away.’
In the taxi he said,
‘I’ve been thinking about you, Emily, thinking a lot.’
‘I’m not sure I’m glad. I don’t stand thinking about.’
‘I think you do. Do I stand thinking about?’
‘Oh, you—you’re the first honest-to-god scion I’ve met, on my own. My Cousin Laura met a few. You’ll meet her when we get back—that is, if you don’t drop me at the foot of the gangplank. But I’ve never called her men by their first names.’
‘Are you engaged to someone back home—or, I mean, got a steady?’
‘Oh, no—someone I dropped or who dropped me. Partly I came away to let some fresh air blow through me. It would have been ten dollars in my pocket if he’d never been born. Oh, I told you about him—B. D.’
‘So, the post is vacant, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, stop kidding, Stephen: it still hurts.’
‘You don’t love him, do you?’
‘Oh, no—you’re full of love, you’re sending out a beam and someone gets in the way and you think it’s him; it’s you lighting him up.’
‘Then let the beam shine on me! Have me!’
She looked at him; she began a tremulous smile,
‘I suppose this is what they do in your mauve, decayed
‘Come along, we’re playing hookey.’
They had their photographs taken in an ante-room, then Walden and Barrie and Stephen and Emily marched off along the Seine. Walden and Barrie were going to the Right Bank, Emily and Stephen turned left, went up the boulevard St-Michel and sat down in a café.
‘I knew your feet were tired,’ said he; ‘I know you by now. In a little while, when you’re rested, we’ll take a taxi to the Ile-de-la-Cité—it’s only a couple of minutes.’
‘Oh, that little island in the river that tags along after Notre-Dame?’
He said, ‘I’ve an uncle lives there, Uncle Maurice. He’s an old bachelor, an aesthete, a do-nothing and I’m like him. Or I should be if it weren’t that a hellgrammite bit me once and I’ve been biting my luck ever since.’
‘What’s a hellgrammite?’
‘A bug you use for fishing.’
‘A hellgrammite bit you?’
‘Yes, it really did. But I meant, one day I found out my family uses labour spies, goons, strike-breakers, the lurid lot. Someone told me, reproached me at Princeton. I didn’t believe it. I went and found out. I wrote a book about it. I’ll give it to you. A pamphlet it is— Labor Spies.’
‘What did the Howards say to the book?’
‘It was brought out by the left press and under a pseudonym—you know, Justin Clark, I told you. I knew Mother read it, for she had a quiet talk with me about all the good the Howards have done the country. She is very proud of their services to the country. Men on strike are undermining that good. She didn’t put it in those words.’
‘She didn’t mind?’
‘I’m her favourite son—the only one that is. I only mean to say, I’m really another Uncle Maurice and she is thankful I am not. He went to the Sorbonne—so did I for a year. He collects—all sorts of oddities, delicious objects that I like and admire. It took me years to understand him, for it seemed boyish to me—collecting. He goes to concerts just like me, has a faithful friend or two he loves—just a happy Howard.’
‘It’s such a beautiful way to live, the way you live: all with different personalities, leaving each other alone and admiring each other. A united family. I do love it. It’s like a picture gallery somewhere in Italy—all the portraits, elegantly drawn by some master of the day—tray raffinay. A friendly master—a court painter—not a hater of the rich. Till now, I never knew the rich were decent.’
He laughed, ‘I don’t think Anna thinks so; she knows too much, but she is a good woman; she won’t give her class away.’
In the taxi he said,
‘I’ve been thinking about you, Emily, thinking a lot.’
‘I’m not sure I’m glad. I don’t stand thinking about.’
‘I think you do. Do I stand thinking about?’
‘Oh, you—you’re the first honest-to-god scion I’ve met, on my own. My Cousin Laura met a few. You’ll meet her when we get back—that is, if you don’t drop me at the foot of the gangplank. But I’ve never called her men by their first names.’
‘Are you engaged to someone back home—or, I mean, got a steady?’
‘Oh, no—someone I dropped or who dropped me. Partly I came away to let some fresh air blow through me. It would have been ten dollars in my pocket if he’d never been born. Oh, I told you about him—B. D.’
‘So, the post is vacant, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, stop kidding, Stephen: it still hurts.’
‘You don’t love him, do you?’
‘Oh, no—you’re full of love, you’re sending out a beam and someone gets in the way and you think it’s him; it’s you lighting him up.’
‘Then let the beam shine on me! Have me!’
She looked at him; she began a tremulous smile,
‘I suppose this is what they do in your mauve, decayed
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