his gaze and stared at Ben.
Ben stared back, frowning slightly. The bachelor studied Ben's suit. “My mother,” said Ben quickly.
"I'm very sorry,” said the bachelor and put down his paintbrush.
"I'm Ben,” said Ben.
"Finton,” said Finton.
Ben laughed nervously. “They reassigned my mother's house while I was away, so . . ."
Finton's room was pleasantly dark, dark with hardwoods and two walls of old books. The window stood open, admitting the evening air. The drawings pinned on the far wall lifted occasionally in a breeze. Ben edged between Finton's bed and a piano that took up nearly a quarter of the room to study one of the drawings—a man despairing on a black island observed by three skeletal horses; the mast of a wrecked ship piercing the surface of the dark green sea.
"It's a self-portrait,” said Finton. “Marooned, as it were."
Ben thought of his paintings across the hall. “I paint,” he said apologetically.
"Really?"
"I guess I'm interested in repetition, not the epic sweep."
"It's all the same,” said Finton.
"But these are so good you could work for the city."
"Why would I want to do that?"
The awkward silence descended again; Finton looked relaxed, almost bored. Ben rested a hand on the piano.
"Would you like me to play something?” asked Finton.
"I could listen to a short piece."
"Is that what you want?"
"Of course,” said Ben, feeling trapped.
Finton directed him to the armchair in the opposite corner. The arms of the antique chair were of carved mahogany, the seat and back upholstered in rich green velvet. “This is nice,” said Ben, taking a seat.
Finton bowed slightly. “It is yours to occupy any hour of the day."
Ben smiled shyly. It was an unbelievably comfortable chair. Finton began to play. The walls of the room had been painted a dark, deep green, Finton's drawings hung in gallery columns. The oiled-wood desk, Finton's neatly hanging sweater, his corduroy slippers, the stamped spines of his books. Ben started to feel better. The open window let in the evening breeze, the scent of rosemary and lavender growing in the window box came and went. Finton played one of the classical movements, music borne of the days that preceded them, the heartbreaking times that had preceded them, days so dense with tragedy that they might live five hundred of these easy years yet never understand.
Ben studied a photograph propped on the windowsill. Finton standing in a beautiful pale suit, his polished shoes smooth as black stones in the bright, short grass. Finton held a rifle casually in his right hand, the barrel angled at the green earth. Ben could see the shapes of other men in the background.
"Where's this?"
Finton continued to play. “Afternoon hunt. Listening Party."
"You've been to a Listening Party?"
"Last of the season. The very best."
"And you didn't . . . you didn't find a wife?"
"Nope."
Ben sat in worried silence. Even a stone can find love at a Listening Party. A man lucky enough to make the guest list might easily relax into the conviction that he was as good as married.
"Don't worry,” said Finton. “I didn't want to meet any-one, but I'm sure you will."
Ben stared at the photograph, suddenly desired a change of subject. A pair of patrolling boots stood in the corner. “Were you a soldier?"
"Ancient history,” said Finton. “So was my father, and his father, and so on. I thought I'd learn something interesting."
"Me, too."
"All we ever did was play cards in the mud and make ourselves crazy, listening, listening, listening. . . ."
"Where were you?"
"Upper Ridge Patrol."
"Me, too. Like my father. But after Upper Ridge, he volunteered for Advance Coastal."
"Highest casualties."
"He went down with his ship."
"Fathers,” said Finton, as if in disbelief, and shook his head.
"And did yours . . . ?"
"Come back? He did. And in exchange for his service, he was offered the vaunted post of Dog Inspector, for life. Uncomplaining to the end, he spent his
Ben stared back, frowning slightly. The bachelor studied Ben's suit. “My mother,” said Ben quickly.
"I'm very sorry,” said the bachelor and put down his paintbrush.
"I'm Ben,” said Ben.
"Finton,” said Finton.
Ben laughed nervously. “They reassigned my mother's house while I was away, so . . ."
Finton's room was pleasantly dark, dark with hardwoods and two walls of old books. The window stood open, admitting the evening air. The drawings pinned on the far wall lifted occasionally in a breeze. Ben edged between Finton's bed and a piano that took up nearly a quarter of the room to study one of the drawings—a man despairing on a black island observed by three skeletal horses; the mast of a wrecked ship piercing the surface of the dark green sea.
"It's a self-portrait,” said Finton. “Marooned, as it were."
Ben thought of his paintings across the hall. “I paint,” he said apologetically.
"Really?"
"I guess I'm interested in repetition, not the epic sweep."
"It's all the same,” said Finton.
"But these are so good you could work for the city."
"Why would I want to do that?"
The awkward silence descended again; Finton looked relaxed, almost bored. Ben rested a hand on the piano.
"Would you like me to play something?” asked Finton.
"I could listen to a short piece."
"Is that what you want?"
"Of course,” said Ben, feeling trapped.
Finton directed him to the armchair in the opposite corner. The arms of the antique chair were of carved mahogany, the seat and back upholstered in rich green velvet. “This is nice,” said Ben, taking a seat.
Finton bowed slightly. “It is yours to occupy any hour of the day."
Ben smiled shyly. It was an unbelievably comfortable chair. Finton began to play. The walls of the room had been painted a dark, deep green, Finton's drawings hung in gallery columns. The oiled-wood desk, Finton's neatly hanging sweater, his corduroy slippers, the stamped spines of his books. Ben started to feel better. The open window let in the evening breeze, the scent of rosemary and lavender growing in the window box came and went. Finton played one of the classical movements, music borne of the days that preceded them, the heartbreaking times that had preceded them, days so dense with tragedy that they might live five hundred of these easy years yet never understand.
Ben studied a photograph propped on the windowsill. Finton standing in a beautiful pale suit, his polished shoes smooth as black stones in the bright, short grass. Finton held a rifle casually in his right hand, the barrel angled at the green earth. Ben could see the shapes of other men in the background.
"Where's this?"
Finton continued to play. “Afternoon hunt. Listening Party."
"You've been to a Listening Party?"
"Last of the season. The very best."
"And you didn't . . . you didn't find a wife?"
"Nope."
Ben sat in worried silence. Even a stone can find love at a Listening Party. A man lucky enough to make the guest list might easily relax into the conviction that he was as good as married.
"Don't worry,” said Finton. “I didn't want to meet any-one, but I'm sure you will."
Ben stared at the photograph, suddenly desired a change of subject. A pair of patrolling boots stood in the corner. “Were you a soldier?"
"Ancient history,” said Finton. “So was my father, and his father, and so on. I thought I'd learn something interesting."
"Me, too."
"All we ever did was play cards in the mud and make ourselves crazy, listening, listening, listening. . . ."
"Where were you?"
"Upper Ridge Patrol."
"Me, too. Like my father. But after Upper Ridge, he volunteered for Advance Coastal."
"Highest casualties."
"He went down with his ship."
"Fathers,” said Finton, as if in disbelief, and shook his head.
"And did yours . . . ?"
"Come back? He did. And in exchange for his service, he was offered the vaunted post of Dog Inspector, for life. Uncomplaining to the end, he spent his
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