would have been flattered if a faculty member of Matlock’s attainments had asked him how his wife was in bed (and most wondered). And since Matlock was very clearly male, Archer Beeson felt that “drinks and din” with his wife wriggling around in a short skirt might help cement a relationship with the highly regarded professor of English literature.
Matlock heard the breathless shout from the second-floor landing. “Just a sec!”
It was Beeson’s wife, and her broad accent, over-cultivated at Miss Porter’s and Finch, sounded caricatured. Matlock pictured the girl racing around checking the plates of cheese and dip—very unusual cheese and dip, conversation pieces, really—while her husband put the final touches on the visual aspects of his bookcases—perhaps several obscure tomes carelessly, carefully, placed on tables, impossible for a visitor to miss.
Matlock wondered if these two were also secreting small tablets of lysergic acid or capsules of methedrine.
The door opened and Beeson’s petite wife, dressed in the expected short skirt and translucent silk blouse that loosely covered her large breasts, smiled ingenuously.
“Hi! I’m Ginny Beeson. We met at several
mad
cocktail parties. I’m
so
glad you could come. Archie’s just finishing a paper. Come on up.” She preceded Matlock up the stairs, hardly giving him a chance to acknowledge. “These stairs are
horrendous!
Oh, well, the price of starting at the bottom.”
“I’m sure it won’t be for long,” said Matlock.
“That’s what Archie keeps saying. He’d better be right or I’ll have muscles all over my legs!”
“I’m sure he is,” said Matlock, looking at the soft, unmuscular, large expanse of legs in front of him.
Inside the Beeson apartment, the cheese and dip were prominently displayed on an odd-shaped coffee table, and the anticipated showcase volume was one of Matlock’s own. It was titled
Interpolations in Richard II
and it resided on a table underneath a fringed lamp. Impossible for a visitor to miss.
The minute Ginny closed the door, Archie burst into the small living room from what Matlock presumed was Beeson’s study—also small. He carried a sheaf of papers in his left hand; his right was extended.
“Good-oh! Glad you could make it, old man!… Sit, sit. Drinks are due and overdue! God! I’m flaked out for one!… Just spent three hours reading twenty versions of the Thirty Years’ War!”
“It happens. Yesterday I got a theme on
Volpone
with the strangest ending I ever heard of. Turned outthe kid never read it but saw the film in Hartford.”
“With a new ending?”
“Totally.”
“God! That’s marvy!” injected Ginny semihysterically. “What’s your drink preference, Jim? I may call you Jim, mayn’t I, Doctor?”
“Bourbon and a touch of water, and you certainly better, Ginny. I’ve never gotten used to the ‘doctor.’ My father calls it fraud. Doctors carry stethoscopes, not books.” Matlock sat in an easy chair covered with an Indian serape.
“Speaking of doctors, I’m working on my dissertation now. That and two more hectic summers’ll do the trick.” Beeson took the ice bucket from his wife and walked to a long table underneath a window where bottles and glasses were carelessly arranged.
“It’s worth it,” said Ginny Beeson emphatically. “Isn’t it worth it, Jim?”
“Almost essential. It’ll pay off.”
“That and
publishing
.” Ginny Beeson picked up the cheese and crackers and carried them to Matlock. “This is an interesting little Irish
fromage
. Would you believe, it’s called ‘Blarney? Found it in a little shop in New York two weeks ago.”
“Looks great. Never heard of it.”
“Speaking of publishing. I picked up your
Interpolations
book the other day.
Damned fascinating!
Really!”
“Lord, I’ve almost forgotten it. Wrote it four years ago.”
“It should be a
required text!
That’s what Archie said, isn’t it, Archie?”
“Damned right!
Matlock heard the breathless shout from the second-floor landing. “Just a sec!”
It was Beeson’s wife, and her broad accent, over-cultivated at Miss Porter’s and Finch, sounded caricatured. Matlock pictured the girl racing around checking the plates of cheese and dip—very unusual cheese and dip, conversation pieces, really—while her husband put the final touches on the visual aspects of his bookcases—perhaps several obscure tomes carelessly, carefully, placed on tables, impossible for a visitor to miss.
Matlock wondered if these two were also secreting small tablets of lysergic acid or capsules of methedrine.
The door opened and Beeson’s petite wife, dressed in the expected short skirt and translucent silk blouse that loosely covered her large breasts, smiled ingenuously.
“Hi! I’m Ginny Beeson. We met at several
mad
cocktail parties. I’m
so
glad you could come. Archie’s just finishing a paper. Come on up.” She preceded Matlock up the stairs, hardly giving him a chance to acknowledge. “These stairs are
horrendous!
Oh, well, the price of starting at the bottom.”
“I’m sure it won’t be for long,” said Matlock.
“That’s what Archie keeps saying. He’d better be right or I’ll have muscles all over my legs!”
“I’m sure he is,” said Matlock, looking at the soft, unmuscular, large expanse of legs in front of him.
Inside the Beeson apartment, the cheese and dip were prominently displayed on an odd-shaped coffee table, and the anticipated showcase volume was one of Matlock’s own. It was titled
Interpolations in Richard II
and it resided on a table underneath a fringed lamp. Impossible for a visitor to miss.
The minute Ginny closed the door, Archie burst into the small living room from what Matlock presumed was Beeson’s study—also small. He carried a sheaf of papers in his left hand; his right was extended.
“Good-oh! Glad you could make it, old man!… Sit, sit. Drinks are due and overdue! God! I’m flaked out for one!… Just spent three hours reading twenty versions of the Thirty Years’ War!”
“It happens. Yesterday I got a theme on
Volpone
with the strangest ending I ever heard of. Turned outthe kid never read it but saw the film in Hartford.”
“With a new ending?”
“Totally.”
“God! That’s marvy!” injected Ginny semihysterically. “What’s your drink preference, Jim? I may call you Jim, mayn’t I, Doctor?”
“Bourbon and a touch of water, and you certainly better, Ginny. I’ve never gotten used to the ‘doctor.’ My father calls it fraud. Doctors carry stethoscopes, not books.” Matlock sat in an easy chair covered with an Indian serape.
“Speaking of doctors, I’m working on my dissertation now. That and two more hectic summers’ll do the trick.” Beeson took the ice bucket from his wife and walked to a long table underneath a window where bottles and glasses were carelessly arranged.
“It’s worth it,” said Ginny Beeson emphatically. “Isn’t it worth it, Jim?”
“Almost essential. It’ll pay off.”
“That and
publishing
.” Ginny Beeson picked up the cheese and crackers and carried them to Matlock. “This is an interesting little Irish
fromage
. Would you believe, it’s called ‘Blarney? Found it in a little shop in New York two weeks ago.”
“Looks great. Never heard of it.”
“Speaking of publishing. I picked up your
Interpolations
book the other day.
Damned fascinating!
Really!”
“Lord, I’ve almost forgotten it. Wrote it four years ago.”
“It should be a
required text!
That’s what Archie said, isn’t it, Archie?”
“Damned right!
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