The Collected Stories of Louis Auchincloss by Louis Auchincloss Page A

said in a mild, pleasant voice less affected than I would have anticipated. “I hope you’ll excuse my intrusion, but could you tell me if they’re going to continue the buffet lunch next week?”
    I looked at him with a feeling of disappointment.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I never lunch here.”
    He stared with blinking eyes.
    â€œBut you ought. It’s quite delicious.”
    I shrugged my shoulders, but he remained, obviously concerned at what I was passing up.
    â€œPerhaps you will join me for lunch today,” he urged. “It’s
supreme de volaille argentée.”
    I couldn’t repress a laugh at his fantastic accent, and then to cover it up and to excuse myself for not lunching with him I asked him to have a drink. He sat down, and I introduced myself. I confess that I expected that he might have heard of me, and I looked into his owl eyes for some hint that he was impressed. There was none.
    â€œYou weren’t up here during the season?” he asked. “You’ve just come?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    He shook his head.
    â€œIt’s a pity you missed it. They say it was very gay.”
    I murmured something derogatory in general about the summer life at Anchor Harbor.
    â€œYou don’t like it?” he asked.
    â€œI can’t abide it. Can you?”
    â€œMe?” He appeared surprised that anyone should be interested in his reaction. “I don’t really know. Mother and I go out so little. Except, of course, to the Bishop’s. And dear old Mrs. Stone’s.”
    I pictured him at a tea party, brushed and combed and wearing a bib. And eating an enormous cookie.
    â€œI used to go out,” I said.
    â€œAnd now you don’t?”
    Even if he had never heard of me I was surprised, at Anchor Harbor, that he should not have heard of my wife. Ordinarily, I hope, I would not have said what I did say, but my need for communication was strong. I was suddenly and oddly determined to imprint my ego on the empty face of all that he took for granted.
    â€œMy wife died here,” I said. “Last summer.”
    He looked even blanker than before, but gradually an expression of embarrassment came over his face.
    â€œOh, dear,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Of course, if I’d known—”
    I felt ashamed of myself.
    â€œOf course,” I said hurriedly. “Forgive me for mentioning it.”
    â€œBut no,” he protested. “I should have known. I remember now. They were speaking of her at Mrs. Stone’s the other day. She was very beautiful, wasn’t she?”
    She hadn’t been, but I nodded. I wanted even the sympathy that he could give me and swallowed greedily the small drops that fell from his meager supply.
    â€œAnd which reminds me,” he said, after we had talked in this vein for several minutes, “they spoke of you, too. You write things, don’t you? Stories?”
    I swallowed.
    â€œI hope not,” I said. “I’m an historian.”
    â€œOh, that must be lovely.”
    I wondered if there was another man in the world who could have said it as he said it. He conveyed a sense of abysmal ignorance, but of humility, too, and of boundless admiration. These things were fine, were wonderful, he seemed to say, but he, too, had his little niche and a nice one, and he as well as these things existed, and we could be friends together, couldn’t we?
    I decided we were getting nowhere.
    â€œWhat do you do?” I asked.
    â€œDo?” Again he looked blank. “Why, good heavens, man, I don’t do a thing.”
    I looked severe.
    â€œShouldn’t you?”
    â€œShould I?”
    â€œYou haven’t got a family or anything like that?”
    He smiled happily.
    â€œOh, I’ve got ‘something like that,’” he answered. “I’ve got Mother.”
    I nodded. I knew everything now.
    â€œDo you