So Little Time by John P. Marquand Page B

the back of the room had risen.
    â€œI’ve got a question,” he called. “I want to know if Mr. Newcombe believes any of this.” The President rapped upon the table with his hammer, and Walter, smiling, spoke across the room.
    â€œIt’s just a report from London,” Walter said, “I didn’t say I believed it. I was only repeating what I heard.”
    â€œWell,” someone called, “how can you win a war without fighting?” Walter smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œI’m only repeating a point of view,” he said, and then he added the truest remark that he had made that afternoon. “With things the way they are over there, it’s dangerous to make predictions. I only try to give a picture. That’s all, a picture.”
    The President pounded his hammer again upon the table.
    â€œAnd I’m sure that Mr. Newcombe has given us a very definite picture,” he said. “One which we will carry away with us until the next meeting. Thank you, Walter Newcombe. Thank you for being with us.”
    â€œThank you , sir,” Walter said. “Thank you for listening to me.”
    They were pushing out of the room, and voices were rising. If you shut your eyes it brought you back to the end of a High School assembly. Everyone was going back to what he had been doing before, not any wiser, for in the end the talk had been like other talks. Walter Newcombe had said nothing which you could not have read in the morning Times , but then, perhaps no one had expected him to say anything. The only question may have been whether he knew anything that he did not say. It all made Walter Newcombe an enigma to Jeffrey Wilson. What right had he to be in that position? There were other injustices in the world beside the injustices caused by the accident of birth. There were the injustices caused by luck which no New Deal could rectify. Yet Walter must have had ability and experience must have changed him. He could not have been as simple as he had seemed, or as provincial—and yet there had been that story about the cockney and the blackout, and the quality of Walter Newcombe’s voice. “ Cordon sanitaire ,” he had said, and somehow his voice as he mouthed the phrase had left a sour note.
    â€œWell,” Waldo said, “so what?”
    A little knot of people had penned Walter Newcombe into a corner of the room. The waiters were clearing off the dishes.
    â€œI don’t know what,” Jeffrey said, “but it was funny.”
    â€œFunny?” Waldo answered. “It was nuts.”
    Jeffrey stood gazing at the corner of the room.
    â€œLet’s go and speak to him,” he said.
    â€œBaby,” Waldo answered, “no pleated-pants is going to high-hat me. All those boys are pansies.”
    â€œWell, I’m going to speak to him,” Jeffrey said.
    â€œWhat the hell for?” Waldo asked.
    Walter knew Jeffrey right away. There was no fumbling in his memory. Walter knew him right away, but Jeffrey could not tell whether Walter was expressing pleasure or relief when he saw him. Whatever it was, the recognition pleased Jeffrey secretly.
    â€œWhy, Jeff,” Walter called. “Hello there, Jeff. Wait, I’m going out with you.” And he turned to the crowd around him. “I’ve got to be going,” he said. “Jeff, don’t go away.”
    The elevator was filled with a sickly perfume from the beauty parlor on the second floor. Walter stole a glance at himself in the elevator mirror. His hat was an olive-green featherweight felt.
    â€œOld man,” Walter said, “how about a drink in a quiet corner somewhere?”
    There were a lot of other things Jeffrey should have done, but he put them from his mind.
    â€œLet’s get a taxi,” Walter said, “and go up to my place.”
    â€œWhere’s your place?” Jeffrey asked.
    â€œJust a couple of rooms,” Walter said,